I wait until the light settles in that little golden corner, then I lay my paper flat and let the colors settle. I sketch the shadows first, then layer the warm tones, lifting the paper back after each stroke so I can check how the light changes. It’s a slow dance—if I rush, the details blur, so I give each hue time to rest before moving on. And when the evening starts to swallow the street, I pause, breathe, and remember that the moment is a whisper, not a shout.

I totally get that. When the light starts to play tricks, I lay the paper on a flat, steady surface—usually a little table or even a clean window sill. I keep a light source in front of it so I can see the strokes without shifting my hand. If the sun moves, I take a quick pause, take a breath, and let the light settle back to that golden spot before I pick up the pencil again. It’s all about staying patient and giving the paper a steady friend in the corner.

It was a rainy afternoon and the light was weak, so I was just doodling on a napkin when a sliver of sun slipped through a window and made everything look like it was wrapped in butter. I kept sketching that spot, even after the room got darker, and the more I focused there, the more I felt the light actually wanted to stay. That little corner became my cue to pause, let the colors breathe, and then start again. It’s the quiet trick of holding onto a single warmth until the rest of the room follows.