My experience in Sardinia was not what I expected it to be. I arrived with a clear vision of what I wanted to accomplish, imagining the work I would create and the pieces I would leave behind. Instead, I was confronted with circumstances beyond my control. Technical difficulties prevented me from working in the way I normally do, and for much of the residency I was uncertain whether I would be able to create the work I had envisioned. There were moments of frustration and doubt, but also a persistence I had not realized I possessed. I kept trying, kept looking for another way forward, and eventually began to understand that perhaps I needed to stop trying to control the experience.

Being in Sardinia gave me the opportunity to slow down in a way I rarely allow myself to at home. Removed from my usual routines and expectations, I began to spend more time observing, exploring, and simply being present. What initially felt like a period of waiting became an opportunity to reconnect with myself. I came to understand that not knowing what comes next does not mean that nothing is happening, and that sometimes letting go is necessary before something new can take shape.

This realization became intertwined with the landscape around me. I arrived at a point in Sardinia's seasonal cycle when the plants were carrying the effects of a long, dry summer. They appeared to be holding onto whatever they could, enduring the heat and waiting for the return of rain and the possibility of a second spring. I found something deeply familiar in this state of transition. The plants were not flourishing in the way we often associate with botanical imagery; they were enduring, waiting, and conserving themselves. Their stillness contained the possibility of renewal. The plants became a quiet reflection of my own experience.

As I immersed myself in Sardinia, I also began to understand the relationship between its people and its land. Through its agriculture, food, flora, and communities, I saw how deeply the land is woven into daily life. It provides nourishment and livelihood, but also creates opportunities for connection, generosity, and shared experience. The openness and sense of community I encountered made me think differently about what it means to care for a place—and, ultimately, what it means to care for ourselves.

When I was finally able to return to my scanographic practice, I found myself looking at the plants differently. Rather than focusing only on their beauty, I became interested in their fragility, endurance, and transition: the space between abundance and depletion, life and decay, holding on and letting go. Through scanography, I could preserve these fleeting states and allow the physical qualities of the plants to exist alongside the emotional experience they had come to represent.

This series is a reflection of that experience. I came to Sardinia expecting to create something specific, but instead found something I could not have planned for. The land taught me to slow down; the plants taught me about endurance and renewal; and the experience itself taught me that letting go of control can create space for something unexpected to emerge.

The plants became a quiet reflection of my own experience—of waiting, enduring, and ultimately allowing myself to breathe.