My father was an artist, a painter, and a sculptor. Always making, pushing paint, working clay, chasing a composition. On the train, in the park, his sketchbook was never far from his hand. And it was in my father’s atelier where I learned a very different way to see, not just with my eyes, but with attention. The smell of turpentine, the hush of the room that settled when someone was lost in creation – it stays with me. That space felt sacred, yet at the same time free from rules and expectations.