The Vision and the Unveiling: Two Paths a Painting Takes
I had a thought in the studio today, standing in the quiet, surrounded by works in various states of completion. The thought was about how a painting is born. For me, it’s not one single path. It’s not a simple, repeatable formula. Instead, my creative process seems to split into two fundamentally different journeys: the vision and the unveiling.
The Vision: A Flash of Light
My newest diptych, "Of The Body," was born from the first path.
I often say that I have a light show happening in my head, a constant stream of abstract visuals. Some days they come when my eyes are open, and other days they happen when my eyes are mid-blink or closed in meditation or yoga. One day, I had a flash of this painting. It wasn't a fully-formed, hyper-detailed image, but the essence of it was there, immediate and undeniable. I initially thought this painting would be about the journey of transformation, but it took on a life of its own and became about the movement within my body.
I knew, in that instant, that it would be big, vast, and exceptionally bigger than me. I saw the focal point coming from the center bottom, a powerful movement of energy stretching across both canvases. I saw my arms stretching, my hand moving to create each mark. I saw the intricate, complex designs of the forms I’ve been studying under the microscope.
Even with that flash, I didn't know exactly how the painting would come together, stroke by stroke. I didn't start with a perfect blueprint or a reference, but I did start with this distinct flash of abstraction from my brain. It was my job to translate that bolt of energy, to bring that internal light show into the physical world and make it tangible, telling a story one mark at a time.
The Unveiling: A Life of Layers
But then, there are the other paintings.
These works don't start with a vision at all. They start from a completely separate life of their own. The first layer I put down on some of these canvases might as well have been nine paintings ago. They have entire lifetimes of layers beneath their current surface. They have lightyears of history within the color, texture, and intention that are buried but still present.
These paintings are not translations; they are conversations.
They speak to me as I speak to them. I’ll lay down another layer, add a line, or scrape back a texture, and I’ll ask, "What now? Who are you?"
Sometimes they don't speak back. They simply beg for patience, for time, for the space to let their own story unfold. They request that I step back and walk away, to revisit them another day to hear their call. They have to live, to breathe, to accumulate history before they are ready to show me what is meant to come through and show face. This path isn't about capturing a vision I received; it's about being patient enough to witness a slow, quiet unveiling. It is about my ability to trust the excavating nature of the painting process as it takes form.
One process is a lightning strike. The other is a long, slow archaeological dig.
One demands I be a translator for a sudden, brilliant flash of inspiration. The other demands I be a listener, a collaborator in a conversation that can last for months or even years.
I used to think one process was "better" or more "valid" than the other, but I'm learning that's not true. They are simply two different ways of being an artist. One is a revelation, the other is a relationship. And in the studio, my job is to be open and ready for both.
The process of translating my visions onto the canvas doesn’t mean they will turn out exactly the way I see them in my head; it’s a portal into the canvas. It is an invitation for the viewer to pause, listen to the whisper the paint is calling, and see their own physical and emotional journey within the color.
