Our Search for Meaning

And breathe.

We made it through—the winter solstice has passed.

The days are growing, and for a brief moment, we have time away from our daily routines.

Time to ponder.

Time to reset.

Time to find some relief amidst the air of melancholy that drifts over the English-speaking world at this time of year.

Relief

The air rushes over my hands as the salted water laps at the shore in front of me.

The sun gently toasts the sand, and the shade of a nearby tree conceals the blue sky behind its layers of leaves. Sunlight filters through the gaps between the palms, silhouetted by light, letting only the strongest beams through.

There’s a Japanese word for this—the feeling of light dancing through leaves: komorebi.

Yet, as I sit here, my mind replays last week’s chaos: the airport rush, the frantic tube ride, a middle seat on the flight, a taxi without air conditioning. I fled from all that, didn’t I?

I’m here. Free.

Or so I should be.

Something isn’t at peace. There’s a counterfeit ease in how I lie here, mimicking a pose from a glossy ’90s brochure emblazoned with Frankie’s epitaph: “Relax!”

But I can’t.

Reality clings like a shadow: bills, projects, funding, food. There’s no girlfriend. No house with a car in the driveway. Everything sits precariously on the edge of a coin. And for a moment, my mind drifts—what if the coin falls the wrong way?

My fingers curl. Instinctively, I pat my pocket, reaching for the solace of a flavored battery—a small escape.

But the pat turns frantic as I realize: paradise doesn’t have nicotine.

Suddenly, I know—I’m not ready for this.

But why?

My thoughts turn to Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. I recall the passage about the capos in concentration camps, the ones who smoked their last cigarettes. It wasn’t a mere indulgence; it often marked the end of their fight. Their final trade, their last defiance, extinguished.

I take a deep breath, and the truth of my own state settles in.

I feel it now—right in my nerves.

The tension, the need, the longing for relief.

Layer upon layer of residual stress, calcified through the relentless pursuit of goals. As I peel them back, piece by piece, I begin to see what truly matters.

Why?

Why this decision? Why does it hold such weight?

These questions carve through my mind like a razor, slicing away “my problems” and leaving behind the stark realization:

As focused and driven as I am, I’m lost until I know where I’m going.

I think about the future—about what the world might become.

It feels like dreaming: fragments of hope, invention, and possibility stitched into a tapestry of imagined tomorrows.

I feel calmer, but I know it’s a veneer—just pieces of what I’ve seen, assembled into a fragile vision.

And then it hits me.

I see myself.

I see what I’m missing.

I see where I’m going.

And in that instant, it becomes so clear:

I want to know what I want.

My eyes close, and the hum of my surroundings begins to fade.

The daydream folds into reality, and my thoughts wander backward to where I came from.

Where I began.

Who I might have been.

What I believed possible.

A part of me wonders, What if I had known sooner?

But the rest of me acknowledges how fortunate I’ve been to reach this point.

I feel my body lighten, as if disappearing from the experience entirely.

A warmth washes over me, like water flowing through cold tissue, touching more than skin—it soothes my soul.

It’s not quite contentment, but maybe its cousin.

A sibling to melancholy, yet something gentler. Where melancholy carries the heaviness of absence, this feeling is lighter, almost transparent—like the space between thoughts.

It seems as though relief and melancholy are holding hands.

Relief offers that fleeting release, a whisper of hope.

Melancholy lingers with its quiet weight, a reminder of what once was or could never be.

Together, they form a balance that’s neither pure joy nor unyielding sorrow, but something in between—a reflection of life’s complexity.

I linger in that space, where nothing demands an answer, and all questions dissolve into the warmth of simply being.

Relief.

What I’m Learning

Modern media thrives on shaping narratives, bending values, and turning love into a commodity.

But in art, there’s a freedom that disrupts this cycle—an open door to question what we’re fed and craft our own philosophies. In love, in values, in freedom itself.

Over the last five months, I’ve wrestled with how this newsletter can benefit the world I inhabit and the values I cherish.

As an artist, two truths stand out:

1. I’m fortunate to sit in this role; it was once just a dream.

2. The privilege is tempered by solitude—unless art is highly commercial, its value is hard to quantify or share widely.

And as a Londoner, I’ve learned one clear lesson:

The only way to help those around you is to solve a problem you all share.

In the past five years, the British primary art market has seen fewer participants, heftier sales, and a smaller overall volume. The players are growing bigger but fewer in number.

Meanwhile, fast fashion, luxury goods, and cars flourish—spending on the fleeting while the eternal dwindles.

The most important painting I own wasn’t purchased at auction. It was given to me by my best friend—an image of pre-fire Notre Dame bought for less than 10 euros. There’s never a day I wouldn’t want it in my life.

Art’s value, however, is masked by an obsession with supply and demand. Markets tighten to drive up prices for a chosen few, controlling access.

This system does not anger me, but it’s not the only path.

I don’t yet know where this newsletter is headed, but I do know that high art should be for everyone.

And no one else seems willing to take that on.

Maybe it’s us.

What I’m Writing

There’s a growing buzz about 2025: predictions, survival guides, and strategies.

I’ve kept watch, but I haven’t settled on any conclusions. Tonight, I’ll leave the studio at 10 p.m. with a few pieces still unfinished. Tomorrow, I’ll venture into the wilderness to reconnect with my roots and reflect on the past year.

I’ve watched my work blossom this year, and I’m grateful to everyone who has opened it, shared their stories, or supported me on this journey.

Right now, I’m writing about the things that matter to us all:

Love. Purpose. Meaning. Why?

When I first stepped away from consensus reality to create art, that single question pushed me forward:

When all of this is over, how do you want the world to be different?

It’s a good prompt for considering the totality of what we are trying to do.

I’ll be revisiting it this week.

Life is short. How we leave the planet behind when we’re done is always relevant.

Poet’s Corner

For the next month in Poets’ Corner, we’re showcasing writers from Oxford’s Undergraduate Creative Writing program.

This week’s prompt is release

release

To release is to be set free,
Embracing the joy to just be,
A moment's grace, joys pure delight,
A quiet space, the dead of night.

Where wars and greed are rampant, rife,
Forget the peace of simple life,
In silent moments, hearts can find,
The space to quieten the mind.

A building up and letting go,
Release emotion so to grow,
The leaf descends, a gentle fall,
A symbol of release so small.

-Rachael

What I’m Releasing

On Boxing Day, I’ll release a series of new mirrors based on recent commissions.

There will be six in total.

Final words

Relief doesn’t come with confetti or a parade. It sneaks in when you’re finally breathing again, when the white noise of everything you’re juggling lowers just enough for you to notice. It’s that moment your shoulders drop from your ears and you actually feel your spine release. No sudden bursts of triumph—just a quiet reminder that the world keeps spinning even if you step away for a minute.

Relief is like a thread untying from the inside out. You’ve been holding your breath, waking up in clenched jaws, and one day you exhale so deeply you wonder why you never did it sooner. It’s the beer after a bad day, the walk you take to escape your own head, the strange comfort of an open window letting in the night air.

People try to make relief a show, something with lights and applause. But it’s usually gentler than that: the silence of your phone finally not buzzing, the car ride with a song you almost forgot, a small victory that only matters to you. That’s the kind of relief that works its way in—almost shy, but enough to shift your mood from drowning to at least treading water.

And it doesn’t solve your problems, not really. You still have the bills, the baggage, and the noise. But relief buys you a little room to breathe, a second where you can close your eyes and decide you’re not done yet. It might be fleeting, but it’s real. And maybe that’s enough to keep going.

I love you loads,

R