In the hush of early morning, Chase R. McCurdy moves through his home studio like a monk tending an altar. No notifications interrupt him. A biography of Paul Robeson lies open beside a teacup, not far from the studio notebooks of Jack Whitten and a well-worn Alice Coltrane vinyl sleeve. The soft hum of Coltrane glides through the light like a whispered mantra—slow, sacred and deliberate. A canvas rests silently under soft light, waiting. This is not a place of urgency. It is a chamber of patience, of intention. McCurdy doesn’t conquer the page. He listens until it speaks. > Read More
