Most people struggle with stories that don’t resolve.
A film where the final scene fades out before the problem is solved.
A novel where the characters remain complicated instead of redeemed.
A game where no one is clearly declared the winner.
We are conditioned to expect outcomes.
Someone wins. Someone loses. The score is written on the board.
The effort produces a measurable result.
Even in ordinary life we cling to these markers.
If our team wins, we sleep well.
If the numbers go up, we feel successful.
If the problem gets solved, we feel relief.
The outcome tells us what everything meant. It’s comforting.
But it’s also a little artificial.
Because most of life is lived in the middle of things. Not the beginning. Not the resolution. Just the long stretch where the ending isn’t clear yet.
Painting lives in that space.
When I begin a canvas I don’t know what the final image will be. There’s no fixed destination waiting at the end of the process. Just a direction, a few instincts, and the willingness to follow them long enough to see what appears.
For people who are used to measurable outcomes, that feels unsettling.
The instinct is to resolve the painting quickly. To make the composition behave.
To tidy the surface until everything makes sense.
In other words, to force the painting into a conclusion.
But the most interesting moments usually happen before that.
When elements contradict each other, structure and instinct are pulling in different directions, something unexpected appears and the painting stops feeling predictable.
That tension is where the work becomes alive.
The thought of painting something already decided makes me feel slightly sick.
Painting a flower is safe. The outcome is known before the brush touches the canvas. The viewer recognises it instantly. The problem is solved before it even begins.
But the thought of painting something no one has ever seen before is different.
It’s terrifying, exciting and infinitely more worthwhile.
Because the painting isn’t trying to arrive at an answer. It’s trying to discover a question.
Collectors often respond to this instinctively.
They may not articulate it this way, but they can feel when a work has been over-resolved. When every decision has been smoothed out and explained. When the uncertainty has been removed.
Technically the painting might be perfect but it’s finished in the wrong way.
What holds their attention is the opposite.
The sense that something is still unfolding inside the canvas and the work hasn’t been reduced to a tidy result.
That the tension is still breathing.
In a culture obsessed with measurable outcomes, unresolved work can feel uncomfortable.
But that discomfort is often where the most honest things live.
Not every effort needs to produce a score.
Sometimes the point is simply to enter the unknown and see what appears.
We’ve been taught to trust outcomes. But the work I trust most is the work that doesn’t have one.
The kind that doesn’t resolve and stays open just long enough to say something real.
That’s the work I’m interested in making.