Painting is really just an illusion — colours and marks pretending to be light, space, and life. But in that illusion, something real happens.

When I paint sunlight, I’m not trying to copy what I see. I’m trying to hold on to how it feels — the warmth on skin, the calm that fills a room, the quiet joy of seeing something glow.

Maybe that’s what painting is — a way of making the invisible moments visible, even if they only live in paint.

Today, I pressed “send” on something that felt both simple and enormous — my exhibition proposal for Made of Sunlight. For months, I’ve carried this idea quietly: that sunlight, when painted, can do more than illuminate a scene — it can soften mood, shift energy, and restore warmth to a space.

Submitting this application wasn’t just paperwork; it was the first tangible step toward a vision that has lived inside me for a long time. I realised that art doesn’t wait for perfection — it begins in curiosity and trust.

The process reminded me why I paint: to notice light, to honour small beauty, and to share moments of calm with others. Whether this proposal is accepted or not, Made of Sunlight already exists — in my hands, in my sketches, and in the quiet courage it took to bring it forward.