A few days ago, one collector bought three original artworks and commissioned a fourth. All in under a week.
That sort of thing still stuns me. Not because I doubt my work, but because it reminds me how wildly divided the world’s reaction to art can be. Some people see meaning, movement, even emotion in what I do. Others take one look and mutter, “My three-year-old could’ve painted that.”
Maybe they could. Maybe they should. But they can’t.
Because what I paint isn’t about proving skill or showing what my hands can reproduce. It’s about showing what my mind can’t contain. I paint something I want to see, something that didn’t exist before I made it. Something that feels like mine.
I could paint a horse. Or a landscape. Or a nice vase of flowers. And if that’s what someone else wants to do, I say go for it. But for me, that’s not the point. The point is to make something honest. To make something that feels alive, not decorative.
I’ve heard them booing. I’ve also seen what they cheer for. And I’ve realised neither matters much.
I’m not trying to appeal to the people who don’t get it. I’m not even trying to appeal to the people who do. I’m just painting.
It’s the only place where I’m not performing, not guessing, not chasing. It’s where I’ve checked out of the matrix and remembered what it feels like to be free.