This isn’t easy to talk about. But it’s the truth. And the truth matters.
I don’t paint for galleries. I don’t paint for collectors. I paint because, deep down, I wrestle with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. It’s been there for as long as I can remember, a weight that never quite lifts. But in the act of painting, something shifts.
When I step in front of a blank canvas, the noise in my head starts to quiet. The doubts, the self-criticism, the endless questioning—they fade. Maybe only a little bit. But in those moments, I let go. I stop thinking and start feeling. The brush moves, the paint flows, and instinct takes over. And with every mark, every layer, I chip away at that deep-rooted self-doubt.
Painting is about digging deeper. A way to strip everything down until only the truth remains. And each time I finish a piece—each time I sign my name—I feel a little taller, a little stronger. I confront my real self with every artwork, and that process of confrontation is where the growth happens.
Maybe that’s what art is. Not just the colours, the textures, or the forms—but the raw, undeniable truth behind it. The part of ourselves we can’t always put into words but can pour into something tangible.
That’s why I paint.
Maybe you feel the same. Maybe your passion—whatever it is—serves the same purpose. If it does, you’re not alone.
Who’s with me?