Thoughts on atmosphere, intuition, and the emotional beginning of a painting.
Sometimes a painting begins long before the canvas appears.
It starts in silence.
In a passing shadow on the wall.
In the way evening light touches a white curtain for only a few seconds before disappearing again.
I rarely plan a painting completely.
Instead, I collect fragments. Atmospheres. Small emotional echoes that stay somewhere in the background of the day.
When I finally begin painting, it feels less like inventing something and more like uncovering it slowly.
I am especially drawn to unfinished spaces in art.
Soft emptiness. White air. Areas that breathe.
Perhaps that is why many of my paintings feel suspended between dream and memory. I never want them to explain themselves too clearly. I want them to remain slightly open, like a window at night.
My process is intuitive and emotional rather than technical.
Some paintings arrive quickly. Others wait quietly for weeks before revealing what they want to become.
And sometimes the most important part of a painting is not what is added, but what is intentionally left untouched.
