A Return to Roots in Barbados

Right now, we’re holding space.

Not just for distance or travel or time away from the studio, but for something rarer. Four generations standing together in one place. My grandad, turning ninety this year. My dad, seventy. Me at forty. And my son, three. A living timeline, standing on the west coast of the island as the sun sets.

This moment isn’t about nostalgia alone. It’s about orientation. About returning to ancestral ground while keeping one eye on the present and another on what’s quietly forming ahead. It’s been years since I last stood here, and coming back has felt like recalibrating an internal compass, updating an emotional map of place, memory, and belonging.

While the physical studio doors are closed, the work has not stopped.

The studio has never really been walls or tools or easels. It lives through the lens. Through observation. Through attention. Through the quiet habit of noticing light, shadow, movement, texture, breath. Even here, even now, the camera is still recording. Ideas are still arriving. Forms are still shaping themselves slowly in the background.

This time has become a creative rest only in name, because creativity doesn’t pause. It simply changes tempo.

There’s something grounding about standing with family across generations. It compresses time. It softens urgency. It reminds you that making, building, and creating isn’t only about output. It is for me at least about continuity. About leaving gentle marks that ripple forward in to the ocean of life.

For now, consider this a check-in. A small note pinned to the digital door. The studio will reopen soon enough. Until then, the work continues quietly, patiently, under open skies and salt air.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for waiting. And thank you for walking this unfolding story with us.