There are moments, when I find myself wondering - who, in this restless world, will stop in front of a painting? Who will pause long enough to see it - not just glance - but truly see it, to feel it, to listen to the quiet language it speaks beneath the surface of colour and form? Will that be you?

We live surrounded by images. Screens, feed scroll, stories appear and vanish. The visual has never been more abundant, yet true seeing feels increasingly rare.

We drift through our days much like wanderers in a gallery surrounded by images that never cease to unfold - faces, streets, skies, fragments of light - each bringing the faint imprint of a story. And yet, most of the time, we move past them untouched.

But every now and then, something stops us: a brushstrokes that trembles with recognition, a gesture that feels like memory. And in that fragile pause, something extraordinary occurs: a silent yet profound meeting between the one who created and the one who beholds.

I often think about that invisible bridge - the quiet dialogue between artist and viewer, between imagination and memory. Who stands on the other side of my drawings? Who are you, the one looking? Perhaps you stop for reasons I’ll never know – a colour that reminds you of a lost summer, a sky that feels like home. Sometimes I wonder if what you see is what I meant, or if the painting has already become yours – reshaped by your own stories, by what you bring to it in silence.

Maybe you are someone who still believes in gentleness. Someone who notices the small details that the world often rushes past. If so, perhaps that is where we meet: in those unspoken spaces between seeing and feeling. Maybe we are meeting across time – I, in the moment of creating, and you, in the moment of seeing. Our worlds touch for just a second, like two reflections crossing on the surface of water. What you see belongs both to you and to me – a shared silence that lives only in that instant of recognition.

This is what makes art alive - it refuses to belong solely to its maker. The moment it is seen, it becomes a collaboration. What you bring to it is as essential as what I offer. As an artist, I have come to believe that to truly see is to participate - to complete the gesture that began in the studio. And maybe that is why art still matters today, perhaps more than ever. It slows us down. It reminds us that attention is sacred.

Art, for me, is not a luxury. It is a form of breathing - a way of remembering that beauty can still exist in quiet moments, even when the world feels hurried and loud. Illustration, especially, holds that rare balance between word and silence - a story told not by sentences, but by the rhythm of the line, the softness of a shade, the pause of white space.

So as November unfolds - slow and golden - I find myself circling back to a question that never quite leaves me: Is there still need for art? For stories told in watercolour, ink or oil?

I believe there is.

Because somewhere, someone, maybe you, still pauses in front of a painting. Someone sill believes that getleness matter. Someone still listens to the quiet language beneath the colour.

Art does not explain life - it illuminates it. Art teaches us to stay a little longer. It asks us to look closer, to listen differently, to feel without a reason. It slows the world down just enough for us to notice it. And in doing so, it makes the ordinary moment - the brushstroke, the shadow, the silence - suddenly infinite. And in that moment, two world meet.

Thanks you for pausing here with me.

Until next time,

Adrienn

Why Art Still Matters in a Hurried World?