Hour Glass

November 1, 2025


An hourglass sits quietly on the painter’s table, its slow rhythm marking the movement of light across the studio walls. The sand slips downward in steady streams, reminding the artist not of loss, but of passage. Time doesn’t stop for anyone, yet it’s not the enemy of creation, it’s part of it. Every brushstroke happens in that small space between what’s already gone and what’s still possible.

For painters, there’s always a choice in how to see the hourglass. You can stare at the sand already fallen, thinking of the years when you didn’t paint, when the canvas stayed blank, when hesitation or fear disguised themselves as practicality. Or you can look at what remains, the sand still waiting to fall, and see a future that’s open, bright, and full of color. The truth is, there’s no perfect moment to start painting. The perfect moment is simply when your hand reaches for the brush.

Time will keep moving whether you paint or not. But within the act of painting, something remarkable happens: time stretches. The hours dissolve into the rhythm of color and texture, the smell of oil, the quiet hum of focus. The hourglass still turns, but you’re no longer watching it. You’re inside it.

Every artist must make peace with that hourglass, not by trying to stop it, but by painting while the sand still falls. The canvas doesn’t ask how long it’s taken you to arrive, only that you show up and make your mark. What’s left above the glass is enough. Enough for a new beginning, enough for a lifetime of color, enough for one more painting that could change everything.