A jar of peonies in bud greeted me on arrival at a holiday home on the island of Texel — a gesture of welcome to a stranger. They opened on the first morning into a glorious, unhurried display. I fixed on a single bloom and began what I assumed would be a straightforward botanical study.

The earliest digital drafts explored high saturation: deep blues, hot pinks — a pop-art exuberance that seemed, briefly, to suit the subject. I set those aside. The bloom was asking for something quieter. This version settled into monochrome on a dove-grey ground, the blossom held in a state of suspended restraint — not yet carrying a narrative, not yet aware of what it would come to hold.

Six months earlier, during that same holiday, my sister had telephoned with the news of a death — a family friend known since childhood. I received the call among the peonies that had welcomed me. At the time, I did not connect the two events. Looking back, I see that the grief was already in the work, stored in the slow, repetitive labour of looking — waiting, perhaps, for its moment to surface.