Some paintings arrive with mystery. Others arrive with grace. This one arrived with both. The cactus stood proud and blooming, its thorns sharp and flowers tender—a study in contradiction that drew me into its vivid reds and dusty greens. While I was focused on capturing its spirit, my uncle quietly wandered into my studio. Changed by Parkinson’s, his movements were slow, but he reached out and left his hand on the canvas.
At first, I wept—for the change in him, for the shock, for what I thought I had lost. But then I saw something more. His marks were unfiltered and free, raw in a way I hadn’t expected. In them was a truth I had forgotten to seek. So I kept them, layering my brushstrokes over his, and together we created something raw, human, and whole.
This painting is no longer mine alone. It is a story of brokenness turned to beauty, of loosening control, and of learning to listen with the heart instead of the hand.