Complimentary worldwide shipping on orders over $400 · No import tariffs for most countries
Complimentary worldwide shipping on orders over $400 · No import tariffs for most countries
2 min read
The stone remembers what we forget: hunger, silence, the long weight of waiting.
The blue hour settles like a veil drawn across the temple’s brow. Light pools in the crevices of sandstone—faded carvings of apsaras and gods, their bodies softened by centuries of rain. The jungle exhales. Cicadas mark the silence with their patient insistence. Somewhere a bird carries the last syllable of the day into shadow.
I stand before a pediment where the sculpted naga coils in its broken arch. Its mouth is open, but no teeth remain. The stone remembers hunger, though its appetite is now silence. To linger here is to feel the pulse of absence, the body of time stretched taut between dusk and night.
A monk once told me that the blue hour is when the spirits stir—the moment between offerings and forgetting. I watch as the stone breathes in shadow and breathes out memory. Every crack becomes a wound that has learned to sing. Every hollow carries the river’s hush.
I take out my sketchbook. Chalk to paper. A fragment of the naga, unfinished, dissolving at the edges. To draw is not to capture but to listen. To listen is to enter. The hand follows what the stone has already spoken: patience, fracture, endurance.
Blue hour lingers.
Hunger without teeth remains.
Stone learns to be still.
When night fully arrives, the temple is no longer ruin but vessel. The carvings dissolve into shadow, and silence becomes the only inscription left to read. I close the book and bow—not to the gods who once claimed these walls, but to the stones themselves, who keep faith with hunger long after appetite has passed.
Step through.
10 min read
Through the ruins of Angkor, a curatorial pilgrim traces the vanished geometry of divine rule. In the silence of the stones, kingship reveals itself as both devotion and decay—an empire of alignment turned elegy, where even ruin retains the measure of sacred order.
8 min read
In the caves of Laang Spean, in the myth of a dragon princess, in the echoes of Funan and Chenla — Cambodia’s beginnings endure. This essay walks with ancestors through soil, stone, and water, tracing how the first Cambodians shaped rice, ritual, and memory into a living continuity that still breathes today.
9 min read
I was stone, sealed in the earth’s dark marrow, until a single crack taught me the colour of pain and the meaning of release. From silence I tore wings, from pressure I learned fire. I rose into sky and storm as dragon—hunger, flame, and the echo of freedom.
Receive occasional letters from my studio in Siem Reap—offering a glimpse into my creative process, early access to new fine art prints, field notes from the temples of Angkor, exhibition announcements, and reflections on beauty, impermanence, and the spirit of place.
No noise. No clutter. Just quiet inspiration, delivered gently.
Subscribe and stay connected to the unfolding story.
Receive occasional letters from my studio in Siem Reap—offering a glimpse into my creative process, early access to new fine art prints, field notes from the temples of Angkor, exhibition announcements, and reflections on beauty, impermanence, and the spirit of place.
No noise. No clutter. Just quiet inspiration, delivered gently.
Subscribe and stay connected to the unfolding story.