Waiting for inspiration
The air in a waiting room carries a specific kind of weight, a density that seems to swallow sound. For centuries, artists have tried to capture this heavy, invisible presence. I think of Honoré Daumier, who portrayed the slumped, weary resignation of third-class travellers. He understood that waiting wasn't just sitting; it was an endurance sport.
I see that same heavy air, but my era is electrified. The figure on the left isn't just sitting; they are anchored against a storm of data. Their head is buried in their hands, face half-hidden as if they're trying to crawl inside their own mind to escape the silence. The thick, aggressive slashes of orange and gold overhead resemble a visual scream, capturing that internal chaos where your thoughts race at a hundred miles an hour while your body is stuck in a plastic chair. The green glow on their skin adds a cold, modern tension, making the whole scene feel like a pulse vibrating beneath a still surface.
Philosophically, I believe that these gaps in our lives can be brutal: they strip away the “busyness” we use to hide from ourselves, prompting us to confront the “being-between” in our lives and explore what new meanings we can find in moments of doubt.
To wait without losing your mind, you must stop trying to “kill” time. That’s the trap. It’s about practising a kind of active presence, staying locked into the moment rather than just watching the clock or searching for distractions to numb boredom. When you stop treating the pause as a hurdle to jump over and start seeing it as a raw, unfiltered encounter with yourself, the frustration begins to thin out. You realise that stillness isn’t a void; it’s a necessary, uncomfortable breath you have to take before inspiration can begin.
Sitting, Waiting, and Thinking
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