My October Symphony” — Still Creating, Still Escaping
There’s a particular feeling that arrives every year around October. It isn’t grief, and it isn’t loss — it’s quieter than that. It settles in slowly, like shorter days and longer shadows, like the sound of leaves skittering across pavement when no one is around to notice. It’s the awareness that something is ending, yes. But also that something else is preparing to begin. That space in between has always fascinated me.
Lately, my focus has leaned heavily toward jewelry. The rhythm of it, the repetition, the tactile comfort of working bead by bead, it’s grounding in a different way. But I never stopped making art. The studio is still where I disappear when I need to think, or not think at all. It’s where I go when the noise of the world gets loud and my mind needs a place to wander without being interrupted.
My October Symphony came from that place. Inspired by the Pet Shop Boys song of the same name, this piece isn’t about mourning or regret. It’s about that distinctly autumnal melancholy — the kind that arrives when the season turns inward, when the landscape feels stripped back and honest. The lyrics don’t feel heavy to me; they feel reflective, observant and curious.
“What to do about October?
How to smile behind a frown?”
That question isn’t despair — it’s contemplation. And that’s exactly what this piece became.
The surface is built from layers of texture that feel weathered rather than wounded. Soft neutrals, muted golds, pale grays — tones that remind me of vintage tea stained pages, aged paper, and the quiet warmth of things that have lived a life. Upcycled dictionary pages sit beneath encaustic wax, their definitions of love, real, and realism partially obscured. Not erased, just softened. As if time itself has had a say in how those words should be understood now. The wax doesn’t hide the language; it asks you to slow down and look closer.
At the base of the piece, corrugated material anchored with metallic pigment adds weight and stability — a visual grounding, much like the earth itself as it prepares for winter. Above it, textures crack and shift, suggesting movement beneath stillness, a change without chaos. The raised element at the center floats slightly forward, lifted from the surface like a quiet interruption. Inside it, a small collage and a watchmaker’s tube hold mechanical fragments like time reduced to parts, preserved rather than ticking away. It isn’t about stopping time, it’s about acknowledging it and recognizing it’s importance.
“Shall I rewrite or revise my October symphony?
Or change the dedication from revolution to revelation?”
That lyric has stayed with me for years, and it feels especially relevant here. This piece isn’t revolutionary. It doesn’t shout, it reveals: slowly, subtly, deliberately. The revelation is that there is beauty in this season, even in what we often label as bleak. Autumn gets unfairly framed as an ending, when really it’s a deep breath, a pause mixed with recalibration. My October Symphony lives in that pause, inviting you to sit with it, to explore the textures, the half seen words, the quiet complexity of a season that asks us to slow down whether we want to or not.
This piece reminded me why I keep returning to the canvas. Why art, for me, has never been about productivity or output, but about escape — in the best possible sense, of getting lost in the process an allowing my hands to work while the mind wanders. The freedom of allowing something to unfold without forcing it to explain itself.
October doesn’t need fixing. It doesn’t need rewriting. Sometimes it just needs to be understood. And sometimes, it becomes a symphony all on its own.