Coming to Peter Doig's House of Music at the Serpentine Gallery was entering a familiar dream, one that blurs quietly with color and memory. His paintings of musicians, dancers, and flickering lights reminded me how painting can hold both the stillness and the rhythm of life. Even the velvet carpets that lined the gallery floor seemed to extend the paintings beyond their frames, their texture and deep hue blending with Doig's colors almost as if you had stepped into the painting. What resonated most with me was the way he painted memory—not as something fixed, but fluid, alive. His figures often appear suspended between celebration and solitude, echoing that delicate tension between togetherness and isolation that I often try to capture in my own works about intimacy and daily life.

I have never been to Trinidad, but in that gallery—surrounded by his soundtracks, the soft carpets, and the pulsing warmth of color—I was transported there. The atmosphere vibrated with rhythm; it was as if the city itself breathed through the walls.

There's a cinematic distance in his work, yet it's deeply personal. I found myself thinking about how I paint domestic spaces and quiet gestures—how to let emotion breathe through light and color without forcing it. Doig's paintings don't describe; they translate feeling into form.

House of Music reminded me that painting can be both an act of remembering and of listening—a slow rhythm unfolding on canvas. Standing before those dreamlike scenes, I felt a renewed trust in painting’s ability to speak through silence, to carry fragments of time, and to turn the everyday into something tenderly transcendent.