Handpainted art painting

There’s a particular kind of light in Santander that never left me. It’s soft but insistent, sliding across facades, dissolving edges, and turning the most ordinary corners into small theatres. When I paint, I’m not trying to reproduce this light exactly—I’m trying to remember how it felt.

There’s a particular kind of light in Santander that never left me. It’s soft but insistent, sliding across facades, dissolving edges, and turning the most ordinary corners into small theatres. When I paint, I’m not trying to reproduce this light exactly—I’m trying to remember how it felt.

There’s a particular kind of light in Santander that never left me. It’s soft but insistent, sliding across facades, dissolving edges, and turning the most ordinary corners into small theatres. When I paint, I’m not trying to reproduce this light exactly—I’m trying to remember how it felt.

There’s a particular kind of light in Santander that never left me. It’s soft but insistent, sliding across facades, dissolving edges, and turning the most ordinary corners into small theatres. When I paint, I’m not trying to reproduce this light exactly—I’m trying to remember how it felt.