Painted alone in the woods of Gray, Maine, The Teapot carries the quiet weight of solitude and something older, almost whispered. Deep cypress greens and shadowy umber bleed into stormy grays, the colors of damp earth and thick undergrowth. The teapot itself—rooted in darkness, edged in pale moss—feels like a relic, steeped in the scent of nettles and witch’s bane. The air hums with something unseen, a presence just beyond the trees.
