The Zurich Hauptbahnhof is bathed in a clinical, golden light that makes even the most mundane departure feel like a sce

I find myself sitting on a cold platform bench, sketching the delicate ironwork of a passing freight carriage. There is a quiet efficiency here that reminds me of the studios I have visited recently in Berlin: places where the air is clear of the performative smoke and mirrors that once defined the 'great' artist. The old guard insisted on the myth of the tortured genius, as if a painting were only valid if it were birthed from a catastrophic personal failure or a manufactured tragedy.

We are finally outgrowing the need for such exhausting narratives. I am increasingly drawn to the artists who treat their practice with the disciplined respect of a watchmaker, finding that beauty and a well-kept studio are justification enough for their work. There is a profound dignity in the craftsman who no longer feels the need to bleed for the market; they simply create, and that quietude is far more radical than any loud, curated rebellion.