One Sitting, Three Silences
A sitting holds three silences. The first arrives when the guest takes the chair: their weight settles into the room together with the pen they just signed the paper with. The decision has been made; talk now is unnecessary. This silence is not afraid; it is ready.
The second comes the instant the needle first makes contact. The first minute always feels long; the skin is meeting something new. Then the rhythm settles: the space between two beats, a short breath, the flow of a drop of ink. The guest chooses to sleep, or fixes on something, or just watches the ceiling. I only follow the line. There is still no conversation, but this time the silence is a kind of music.
“The third silence is the one at the end: the door closes, the light shifts, and the room takes a breath.”
The closing of the work is always a small ceremony. The last residue of ink is wiped, the scrap of paper folded, then packed away. Before the guest leaves, the room pauses for a moment: a new mark is about to step out into the world. This last silence is the moment when, for us, the work is confirmed.
Recognizing these three silences takes years. A novice artist tends to fill every sitting with steady talk; it unsettles both the guest's concentration and their own hand. A mature hand speaks only when needed, and leaves the rest to silence. Because a mark is not born of noise; it is born of patience.