There's a particular kind of waiting that happens when we move into a new space. We walk through rooms with mental checklists, cataloguing what needs doing, what needs replacing, what needs to be just right before we can truly settle in. The skirting boards need painting. The final touches need placing. Everything needs to be resolved before we can call it complete.

But I've been learning something different lately, living inside the messy middle of our own home renovation.

We moved into our Paradise Point home in December. By January, we'd already decided to renovate. New flooring went down. New lighting went in. My studio is being completely refit. And here I am, working from the dining table most days, or outside when the light is good, surrounded by the beautiful chaos of a house in transition.

There are corners that remain untouched. Skirting boards waiting for a fresh coat of paint. Spaces that aren't quite resolved. And yet, the La Palma set hanging in our dining room catches the morning light against the new natural oak flooring, and the whole room shifts. The soft, earthy tones of those pieces bring a warmth that no amount of finished skirting could create. The lighter palette of this Queensland home, the abundance of natural light, it all works together in a way I didn't anticipate.

The art arrived before everything else was ready. And somehow, that's what made the space feel like ours.

I think we've been taught to approach our homes like projects with definitive endpoints. Finish the painting, then add the furniture, then choose the art. As if our spaces need to earn the right to be beautiful, to be lived in, to feel complete. But homes aren't linear like that. They evolve alongside us. They shift and settle and reveal themselves slowly, often in ways we didn't plan.

Art doesn't wait for perfect conditions. It creates them.

When a room is still unfinished, when there's dust in the corners and decisions still to be made, a strong piece of art does something unexpected. It anchors the uncertainty. It signals intention without demanding resolution. It says, "this space matters, even while it's incomplete."

And perhaps that's the real gift of choosing art during transitional seasons. It reminds us that beauty doesn't require everything to be in place. That we don't need to wait for the ideal moment to begin living in the spaces we inhabit. That sometimes, the most honest version of a home is the one that's still becoming.

I look at our dining room now, with its glowing oak floors and unfinished details, and I don't see what's missing. I see the La Palma pieces holding the room together, grounding it, making it feel intentional even while so much is still in flux. The art didn't need the space to be perfect. The space needed the art to feel possible.

So if you've been waiting for everything to be finished before you choose that piece you keep returning to, I want to offer a different perspective. Your home doesn't need to be complete to deserve beautiful things. In fact, the art might be exactly what helps you see the space clearly, what helps you understand what belongs and what doesn't, what stays and what can be let go.

Homes evolve. Art doesn't need perfect conditions to belong. It simply needs a wall, some light, and your willingness to let it arrive before everything else is ready.

This piece is available via my online gallery.