No one tells you this when you start painting:
The longer you do it, the less it becomes about the brush, the colour, or the surface.
Eventually, if you stay with it long enough, you’ll meet every part of yourself in the work.
The parts you love. The parts you loathe. And especially the parts you’ve spent years trying to hide.
At first, it’s just fun. Or therapy. Or chaos.
But with time, the canvas turns into a mirror.
Not the polished kind you check your hair in.
I mean the kind that holds up a version of you you’d rather not acknowledge.
The frustration. The need to be liked. The control freak. The imposter.
The doubter. The dreamer. The kid who just wanted to play.
Every painting I make brings one of them forward.
Some days, I fight it.
I want the piece to behave. I want to look clever. I want it to be liked.
But the moment I try to impress someone else, the work falls flat.
Why?
Because the canvas isn’t here for performance.
It’s here for honesty.
And if you’re not ready to be honest, it shows.
You don’t need to be a painter to feel this.
Every time you put something of yourself out there, a choice, a style, a voice, you’re up against that same mirror.
Will you hide? Or will you let it speak?
Art doesn’t have to be beautiful.
It has to be real.
And real… is rare.
If one of my pieces hits you in the guts, there’s a reason.
You’re not looking at the art.
You’re recognising something in yourself.
That’s the whole point.
So go on. Meet yourself there.