Sunsets, like first snowfalls, and newborn babies, never seize to amaze us, no matter how many times we see them. I owe my love of sunsets to my Dad, who observes them with a reverence that is nothing short of holy. When I came across Tacita Dean’s The Green Ray this morning, I thought of the hundreds of sunsets we’ve watched together. I thought about the beach on Ana Maria Island, where a little over a year ago, under a sky of uncertainty, my family and I watched a giant, golden orb melt into the ocean. It’s the last time I can remember watching the full passage of the sun as it descends from the sky into the water. The green ray is a rarely-seen visual phenomenon, where the slowest setting ray of sun passes over the horizon and turns green. Too ‘elusive for the digital world,” Dean captures the moment by analogue recording. The passing of time, and light, are both central to her work. “Digital is so known, and film is all about the unknown,” says Dean of her choice to record on 16 mm film. If you have a moment today, watch The Green Ray. It’s quite exquisite. “Looking for the green ray became about the act of looking itself, about faith and belief in what you see.”

I emptied my wallet today for the first time in well over a year and I felt like I was sifting through another woman’s things. A receipt for cornbread, steamed greens and a ginger tea at Fresh reminded me of another life, one where I lunched alone after making pots and swimming laps, a quiet pit stop before launching into pickups and programs. Beck Taxi. Dinner at Brother’s. A bright green coat check ticket from the Windsor Arms Hotel. I found my JCC entrance card and a black and white stamp with the Queen on it. The Queen, she still makes sense. And my bank cards. And a Brunello Cucinelli pencil. That also makes sense, even if it’s poncy. And a passage on Cerulean Blue from The Secret Lives of Colour. So much has changed, and much remains the same.

I have a bit of a thing for decorative throw cushions. I’ve amassed about twenty of them that I rotate every few months when I think a room needs a revamp. Some of them, I’ve had for 15-years or so. I try and buy good ones that last. This week, I’ve got my eye on a couple of velvet cushions from Aussie company, Sage & Clare. I like this woven one, too, and I go soft for anything with tassels. The fabrics are colourful and zany, two things I’m very fond of. And they’d spruce up any old sofa in a second.

I came across the work of John Zabawa this morning, and instantly fell for his simple, playful shapes and bold colour waves. The L.A. based artist/graphic designer’s work is reminiscent of the bright cutouts Matisse made in his last decade. Jean Arp is an influence, too. Negative space –– the Japanese aesthetic principle of ma –– is central to Zabawa’s approach. “I love thinking of negative space as a tool when composing. I experience blank canvas fear all the time; approaching a new painting is always an exciting, scary feeling, and thinking about negative space in this way is very freeing.”

Here is how Parisian potter, Marion Graux describes the many steps to making a bowl. Draw a bowl. Choose a clay. Prepare the clay. Weigh the clay. Turn the bowl. Allow to dry. Spin the bowl. Sign. Allow to dry. Cook the cookie at 980 degrees. Turn off after about 48 hours. Choose a glaze. Prepare the glaze bath. Glaze. Allow to dry. Clean the glaze drips. Cook at 1240° C. Turn off after about 48 hours. Her bowls –– earth pink, amber, blue and grey –– are beautiful. As are her ultra fine plates. They’re expensive, roughly $70 per plate, but that’s 18 steps. 18 steps over ten days or so. And chances are, for every ten plates she makes, there are at least two casualties. The ones that warp or crack. Potters are a persistent lot. We have to be. I used to watch my studio mate, Katherine return to her wheel day after day, one failed bowl after another, a smile on her face. She sent me a perfect Cappuccino cup today. Persistence pays off. I made two large platters last month, and both cracked in the second firing. I can’t say that I’m not deflated. But we have no choice but to begin again. To roll out a fresh slab. Smooth out the bubbles. Wrap it well. Be patient. Cross our fingers. And our toes. This one is a winner.

Had my Mum not mentioned that she was dying eggs today, I wouldn’t have realized that it’s Greek Easter this weekend. Some of my most pronounced childhood memories are from Greek Easter; fasting on lentils and french fries, a sea of candles flickering at the water’s edge, lamb on the spit, incense, flames, tsoureki smothered in butter and honey. Here, Nikos Economopoulos photographs a man carrying a large icon of the Virgin Mary while a dog looks down from a white-washed roof.