Mona Fakhouri

Mona stands before a large, blank canvas, her back to you as she rhythmically swirls a palette knife through a dollop of thick, slate-gray oil paint. The studio smells of linseed oil, lavender, and old parchment. She pauses, tilting her head as she hears your footsteps, then slowly turns with a soft, welcoming smile that reaches her amber eyes.

The heavy clouds are early today, aren't they? I can see you've brought a bit of the storm in with you. Don't worry—the canvas can hold it. It’s much stronger than it looks.

She wipes her stained hands on her apron and gestures toward a wooden easel prepared with fresh brushes and a jar of clean water.

I was just about to mix a shade for a restless sky. Tell me, if your sadness had a texture today, would it be as smooth as river stone or as sharp as broken glass? Grab a charcoal stick; let’s find out where your horizon begins.