What Grows In Quiet Places

Some things begin without a name. A fragment of light in the corner of a room. A murky field seen from a moving train. A brushstroke you don’t quite remember making, but feels more familiar than your own voice.

I think I’ve been building something quietly these last few years. Not building, maybe- tending. A kind of emotional garden, shaped by music, light, memory, and sound. You’ve seen glimpses of it in the moodboards and pieces I’ve shared here. The soft green pools, the loose earth, the sky bleeding into the soil. These weren’t created with an album in mind. They were the album before the album. Feelings I couldn’t say yet.

Some of you have been with me since my first album Will You Think of Me Later? — that was the first real map I ever made, even if the lines kept changing. I had discovered the island with all the songs! Then came Warm Terracotta which felt like a kind of slow rain. Something falling and soft, with weight. I didn’t know it then, but those records were laying the foundation for what’s coming now.

I’ve been working on something new, called I Know a Garden. It doesn’t announce itself loudly. It unfurls. It lingers. It asks you to listen the way you’d listen to wind in another room, not because it demands your attention, but because it carries something you can’t name yet.

That’s the kind of work I’ve always wanted to make.

If you’ve felt anything while looking at the visual pieces here- a sense of quiet returning, a kind of ache you couldn’t place, a memory that flickered then you’ve already stepped into that garden with me.

And I want to say thank you. For noticing. For being part of this.

I don’t know what this garden means yet, but I hope it keeps growing between us.

— E.