This piece was born from one such night in the Scottish Highlands—October, when the veil thins and the air carries more than chill. The wind arrived not as a breeze, but as a force that sculpted memory into motion. It howled through stone and heather, curling around the bones of old ruins and the breath of the living. It turned direction with intention, as if searching for something lost.
The central spiral in this sculptural painting evokes that vortex—a cosmic inhalation of grief, myth, and ancestral echo. Layered textures rise like ridges of earth and sky colliding, while streaks of blue, violet, and gold shimmer like aurora caught in storm. Black and gray dominate the palette, grounding the chaos in solemnity, while flecks of red and glitter pulse like embers—remnants of ritual, resistance, and remembrance.
This is not a depiction of wind. It is wind, as we now know it. A force that moves through time, through body, through story. A sculptural archive of a night that changed everything
