Long before the first brushstroke, something is already taking shape. There is silence, which holds more movement than anyone can see… a moment waiting to break open…

People often imagine that an artwork begins with paint. It doesn’t. It begins months earlier, with something so small that no one else would notice: a shadow crossing the pavement, the way the wind reshapes a dune, a sentence I cannot stop thinking about but don’t know how to write down, or a feeling that quietly follows me long after I have returned home.

Creating is not the moment the brush touches the canvas; that is merely the visible part. True creation happens when all those thoughts finally recognise one another. Then comes the first line. It may take a second to draw. Or hours. Or days…

Then comes the physical reality of the studio. One single line can weaken a whole composition. Another may take dozens of attempts before it finally feels right. There is no formula. It demands a strange kind of control, and hours of waiting for layers to dry. And they don’t always dry the way I want them to. Sometimes they crack like broken porcelain, forcing an immediate, visceral decision: what now?

Every layer asks a question. Will it dry as I imagined? Should I keep listening, or should I interfere? Decisions. Decisions. Decisions… Sometimes the painting answers before I do.

When the work is finished, people look at a single, static image. They judge it in a few seconds. They rarely see the hundreds of invisible, quiet decisions hidden beneath the surface.

Art has always been like a temple for me… a language of expression, colour, and feeling. A glimpse into someone’s mind, and a place where I can hide and truly speak with myself.

This is why art, to me, has always felt like entering someone else’s mind. A painting is never only about colour or composition; it is a way of thinking made visible. Perhaps that is why I love reading about artists as much as looking at their work. That’s why I like to describe my work; it is Visual Storytelling. I like to invite people in, to introduce my point of view, and to be more deeply known. Every essay reveals another way of seeing. Too often, we rush to interpret a piece of art before we have truly listened to it. We look at the surface and we steal the artist’s worldview, replacing it with our own quick judgment.

The exact same thing happens between human beings.

We are so quick to describe people. We give them names, professions, personalities, and opinions. We become comfortable believing we know them. But most of what matters lives deep beneath those descriptions. Our one hundred percent never looks exactly the same twice. Some days it is full of energy. Some days it is simply getting out of bed. Both are still one hundred percent of who we are that day. Perhaps we would judge ourselves more gently if we remembered that.

We all wear masks. Some protect us; others help us belong. Sometimes they become so familiar that we no longer notice we are wearing them ourselves. Creating is my way of looking beyond them. Not to define who I am, but to discover which parts of myself remain when the masks quietly fall away.

That is one of the reasons I keep a journal. It reminds me that every day has value, even when it looks nothing like the day before.

Perhaps creating is not so different from living. We are all artists of our own lives, making countless invisible choices every day. Some leave visible marks. Others quietly shape the person we are becoming. Before every painting, there is a question. Perhaps before every meaningful life, there is one too.

I want to know what questions led to an artwork. What stayed unspoken. What changed along the way. For me, that is where the real art begins.

Perhaps every artwork is less a statement than an introduction.

Not: “This is who I am.”

But: “This is one place where you may begin to know me.”

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P.S.