My fourth album, The Great Divide, is yours to listen to. It is hard to even begin to describe what these last few years making this album has felt like. The collision of fear and pressure and joy and luck and total love has left me wordless, and if you know me personally, I hardly ever shut my mouth. I spent many months walking forward in complete darkness, hands out in front of me, desperate to touch something familiar that would show me I was near the light switch again. As lonely as it felt, and as unfamiliar as the world seemed in those moments, I was never really alone. I don’t think any of us ever truly are. I was guided through the wilderness by calm voices, by the stillness of my home state, by the total commitment of my band, producers, and team, by the steady and loving touch of my wife and family, and of course, by the constant and enduring encouragement of you all, who I am so lucky to have as fans. I am very proud of what we are doing together and I hope we can live this dream for a long long time
https://t.co/stSzorkE4f
Today is the official release day of the Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 vinyls and CDs. 🎶🎷
From the bottom of my heart, thank you for welcoming the music of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 into your daily lives.
I’m deeply grateful to every person who made this physical edition of the music possible, thank you so much.
It feel a little surreal to see and hear the vinyls spinning on your grammophone.
It’s an immense gift and an honor to share our music with you.
Thank you for this unique bond that connects us through music and videogames.
My 4th album, The Great Divide, will be yours on April 24th, 2026. Pre-order and pre-save at the link below. First single out this Friday.
https://t.co/qrQPcZzihZ
Wishing you all the happiest of holidays, from our painted family to yours ❤️❤️
- The Expedition 33 Team!!
Artwork made by Nicholas Maxson-Francombe, Art Director.
My daughter died three days before Christmas seven years ago. She was nine years old, hit by a drunk driver walking home from her friend's house. I spent Christmas Day planning her funeral instead of watching her open presents.
I haven't celebrated Christmas since. Can't look at decorations without feeling like my chest is caving in. My husband begged me every year to put up a tree for our other kids but I couldn't. The thought of hanging ornaments and pretending to be festive while my daughter is in the ground made me sick.
Last month my son, who's sixteen now, came to me holding a box of beads. Said his sister used to make bead animals at summer camp, remembered her coming home so proud with these tiny creations. He'd kept them all this time in a shoebox under his bed. Little beaded dogs and stars and flowers she made when she was seven.
He asked if we could make something together to remember her. Said he missed having Christmas in our house, missed family traditions, but wanted it to include her somehow. So we sat at the kitchen table and started making this beaded Christmas tree using her old beads mixed with new ones.
We've been working on it every night for the past month—me, my husband, our son, our younger daughter who barely remembers her sister. Stringing thousands of tiny beads onto wire, shaping branches, adding ornaments made from crystals and charms. Some beads are from my daughter's old craft projects. Others we bought online from a maker who sells vintage beads and helped us match colors when we sent photos.
We finished it two days ago. I put it on our mantle and cried for an hour. My son held me and said, "she'd want us to have Christmas, Mom." He's right. She loved Christmas. She'd be devastated knowing we stopped celebrating because of her.
I started a small online shop last week selling kits to help other grieving parents make memorial trees. Custom bead collections in their loved one's favorite colors, wire forms, instructions for people who need something to do with their hands during holidays when grief feels unbearable. I already have twenty-three orders from parents who lost children.
This tree sits on our mantle now with a small photo of my daughter next to it. We're having Christmas this year for the first time in seven years. Not because the pain is gone but because she deserves to still be part of our celebrations even though she can't be here.
Grief doesn't end but it changes shape. Mine looks like a beaded Christmas tree now, made with my living children's hands, holding pieces of the daughter I lost. That's how we survive. We make beautiful things out of unbearable pain.
Credit - Martha Barker