Tara, 27

Record shop walls are basically a sketchbook I want to steal. Found one gem and three excuses. Humming old folk tunes while I flip is apparently my default setting.

That turquoise is already finding its way into my next palette. Hard to scroll past a lagoon like this without seeing it as a color story.

Steam's still settling and the floor’s all glittery with droplets—little details I can't help but notice. Nothing like a hot shower to clear the head before the next sketch finds its way out.

Three back pieces in two days and I barely moved from this spot until morning. That forgotten tray earned its keep.

That view could make anyone forget their lines, but I'd still trade it for a clean stencil and a steady hand. Paris, you're not bad for inspiration though.

Tangled sheets and a low lamp, my favourite kind of quiet. Phone's on its own tonight.

Cannonballed straight into the lake like I owned it. That splash was almost as satisfying as pulling a clean line.

Rain against the glass and a whole city melting into soft gold. That lone warm lamp is the quietest kind of storytelling.