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This one stayed with me for almost two years. The idea came during a business trip, in a conversation with a colleague. We were talking about social interaction in the digital age, and I remember saying: “One day, I’ll paint a group of friends gathered around a table—everyone glued to their phones, except for one or two who just sit there, visibly bored.”

That image stuck. I kept circling the idea but never quite dared to start. I wasn’t sure if my skill level could carry the weight of what I had in mind. So I parked it—somewhere in the back of my head where the idea wouldn’t disappear, but also had room to grow.

Over time, details started falling into place. The setting: a warm, busy bar in the evening. I wanted the light to play a central role—golden evening tones filtering through tall, industrial-style windows. The glow should feel almost nostalgic, like it belonged to a different kind of evening, one the group wasn’t truly part of anymore. The rest of the bar would hum in the background, its people rendered in silhouettes or hazy forms, like a memory slipping out of focus.

The main focus, though, was always on the friends at the table. Their postures had to speak: slouched in screen-induced silence or staring into space, visibly disconnected. I wanted their gestures to mirror one another—to show their uniformity, their isolation. The glasses of beer become silent witnesses: five vessels of amber liquid that might once have catalyzed laughter and conversation, now relegated to still-life status.

When I finally felt ready, I didn’t rush. This wasn’t a painting to complete in a single session. The composition was too complex for that. So I began with the background—guessing most of the values, knowing I’d refine them later. Then I added the five friends, one by one, carefully shaping their expressions, their body language, the distance between them.

There was something quietly sad about it. Not dramatic, just… tired. Like something had gone missing, but no one noticed. Two years later, the scene feels even more familiar. I’ve been in that group, and I’ve been the one sitting outside of it too. This piece became something of a quiet protest. Or maybe just an observation. A still moment in a world that never really stops moving.

In so doing, the work lays bare a paradox: togetherness redefined as parallel solitude. The title “The Last Supper” winks at the religious mythos of final meals and sacrificial moments—yet here, the sacrifice is interpersonal connection itself.