Rain cloaks the threshold. Garuda waits with lifted wings. Devatas lean from wet stone. A tree remembers the temple. And the chalk listens in the hush of rain.
Beneath the veil of dawn, a temple waits—bare, immense, and holy. Where the carving ceased, the spirit remained. In that unfinished stillness, something eternal begins to speak.
Beneath soft cloud and after monsoon rain, we walked where no road leads—through moss-strewn silence, broken statues, and the stillness of unseen watchers.
Each sketch a gesture of prayer, each threshold a moment of return. The ancestors were listening. And the stone remembered.
Beneath the canopy of Ta Prohm’s southern galleries, silence takes form—between incense and ruin, roots and prayer, shadow and light. A field journal entry drawn in reverence, where chalk remembers what time cannot hold. Step quietly between guardians, and listen to the breath that lingers in stone.
Beneath curling vines and soft monsoon light, gods sleep on stone, thunder waits above a crown, and wings darken the sky. This is a morning of sacred symbols and soft breath—where every carving remembers, and every silence leads inward.
Mist drifts over ancient stone, where gods are carved into memory and silence carries the weight of forgotten prayers. Somewhere between shadow and gold light, something eternal waits—unmoving, and yet alive.
Stone remembers what we forget. In a forest where Buddhas endure and hornbills rise, silence becomes a doorway—and every step, a prayer returned.
Step into the sacred silence of Angkor’s jungle paths and ancient stones in this evocative Artist’s Field Journal. Follow a morning’s walk to Prasat Chrung (SE), where pastel and chalk sketches capture the spiritual resonance of weathered apsaras, broken bodhisattvas, and forgotten forest trails. A poetic meditation on beauty, impermanence, and artistic devotion.
Morning rain at Banteay Kdei softens the world to silence. In the hush of wet stone and awakening light, the sacred stirs. A quiet journey into the heart of a temple, where magic lives not in spectacle—but in presence.
She did not smile for the sculptor alone.
In the Cruciform Galleries of Angkor Wat, two apsaras lean together in golden hush—an eternal caress remembered through stone, through time, through light. This is their story, and the silence that first called me to them.
