There’s a romantic myth that surrounds the artist’s studio. That it’s some sacred, mysterious place where muses descend and genius flows freely from brush to canvas. But that’s not the truth—at least, not for me. There’s no mystery. No divine whisper. No secret sauce.
What there is, is a tension. A very human, very real pull between two opposing forces: the desire to say something that matters—and the equally strong desire to stay hidden. Every piece I create is a negotiation between those two instincts.
The Myth of the “Inspired Artist”
People often ask where my inspiration comes from. I think they want me to say something profound—something that places the artist on a higher plane. But the truth? I show up. I work. I wrestle. I doubt. I get curious. I get scared. And I paint anyway.
There’s no spark of genius that kicks things off. The process begins with something much more ordinary: the need to express something I don’t yet have words for, paired with a gnawing fear of being seen too clearly. That’s the real battle. And it’s where the most honest art comes from.
Art as Exposure
Creating is, in many ways, an act of exposure. Even if the work is abstract, even if there are no faces or figures, there’s something undeniably personal in it. The marks, the choices, the chaos I allow (or don’t allow)—it all says something. Whether I mean to or not.
So I try to walk a line. To reveal enough to connect, but not so much that I unravel. That’s the tension. That’s the heartbeat behind the brushstrokes.
The Collision Point: Curiosity vs. Fear
Every piece begins in the same place: the intersection of curiosity and fear.
Curiosity asks, “What if I tried this?”
Fear replies, “What if they hate it?”
Curiosity asks, “This could be something new.”
Fear warns, “This could be a mistake.”
And somewhere between those two voices, I find the edge worth walking. That’s where the work happens. Not in the perfect conditions. Not under the myth of inspiration. But in the messy, uncertain space where I’m unsure of what the outcome will be—and I go there anyway.
No Mystery. Just Work.
Art isn’t magic. It’s not divine. It’s not reserved for a gifted few. It’s work. Honest work. Vulnerable work. Sometimes it’s bold, sometimes it’s quiet, but it always starts from the same place: a need to speak without always knowing what will come out.
The next time someone tells you there’s something mysterious about the artistic process, tell them this:
There’s no mystery.
Just a person.
In a room.
Trying to make sense of a feeling—
and daring to leave it out in the open.