Jane Samsonova

Some places enter your memory quietly.

La Martre was one of those places.

We stopped on the road, and the lighthouse stood there in the cold —
bright, still, and completely certain of itself.

The wind was sharp.
The coast felt endless.
Everything seemed reduced to only what mattered:
light, sky, snow, horizon.

I didn’t know yet what the painting would become.
But I knew this place would stay.

Where the Lighthouse Waits
Map of Quiet — Chapter III