My Toile — letting beauty be “just pretty”

This is the first practice of the year, and in many ways, it feels like opening a door. If you’re here, it’s because you’re following along with the rhythm we’ve set together: fifty-two meditations, one for each Sunday evening, each one paired with a work of art. There’s the public episode, and then there’s this space — slower, quieter, more intimate — where we move into the full practice.

If you’ve watched the video already, you’ll have noticed something: it isn’t polished. I left the mistakes in. The hesitations are there, the pauses, the little slips. I want these sessions to feel as close to live as possible, almost like we’re in the same room. Over time, maybe they really will become live. For now, this is my way of refusing to over-perform. The practice matters more than the perfection.

I decided to begin the year with an artwork of my own, and I wanted it to be something simple — but also something I could stand behind with real pride. That piece is “My Toile.”

For a long while, I tried to create a Toile de Jouy–style pattern. I admired the originals so deeply: narrative scenes, delicate figures, stories woven across fabric. And I wanted, like the great masters, to hide symbols inside mine — secret gestures only the “initiated” would recognize. I wanted it to look clever, layered, meaningful. Instead, everything I drew felt stiff and wrong. I hated it all.

Naturally, I blamed my skills. I don’t have a formal art education, and the old voice of impostor syndrome can be relentless. So I went back to practice. I worked with ink. I studied from an 1800s guidebook. I told myself that with enough discipline, the drawings would finally behave. But nothing shifted — not until a blunt, almost embarrassing question surfaced: why did this toile need to be profound? Why did it need hidden mysticism? Why did it have to “say” anything?

The truth was simpler. I wanted to create it because I loved the idea. And I wanted to use it in my brand — for profile images, business cards, maybe packaging. That was it. Nothing lofty. Nothing philosophical. So why couldn’t it just be pretty?

That single admission unlocked everything. Once I stopped forcing depth, I could finally see clearly. I turned to references that actually felt aligned with Maison Eviève: nostalgic imagery, quiet academic atmospheres, statues, books, magnolias, peonies, cameos. I let myself enjoy the beauty instead of interrogating it. I sketched freely on paper first, and when a few drawings finally felt right, I moved them to the tablet and worked digitally, bringing them together into one coherent pattern. For the first time, it looked alive — not because it was symbolic, but because it was honest.

Before creating it, I had the chance to visit the source — the Toile de Jouy museum, about an hour outside Paris. “Toile de Jouy” literally means “the fabric of Jouy,” after the town where it originated. Standing in front of those original fabrics, you realize something crucial: yes, they’re intricate and historic, but they are also domestic. They lived in homes. They weren’t shouting. They were meant to accompany life quietly. That perspective softened me. My work didn’t need to prove anything. It simply needed to belong.

This is why I paired this piece with our first practice. The exercise isn’t about analyzing the pattern. It’s about letting yourself be with something beautiful — without demanding that it justify its existence. Small, gentle, unforced. Simple, but not shallow. There is real power in that restraint.

I hope this week’s practice felt like that: simple but grounded, slow but not empty, gentle without becoming sentimental. My intention is to keep this series steady and human. No pressure to transform your life overnight. Just one quiet invitation at a time.

I’ll meet you again next Sunday with a very different artwork. Until then, take your time, look carefully, and allow something in your day to be “just pretty” — without apology.