There’s a moment before every painting begins — quiet and full of anticipation — where I think I know exactly what I’m about to create. I’ve chosen the canvas, the scene, the general composition. Maybe I’ve even sketched a rough idea or mixed the colors I believe I’ll need. I sit down with intention, with a clear vision in my mind.

And then… the brush touches the surface, and the painting begins to speak.

I’ve learned over the years that no matter how much planning I do, the painting always has its own ideas. More often than not, it takes me somewhere unexpected — a shift in light, a new rhythm in the composition, a color I didn’t anticipate using but suddenly need to add. It’s like the work itself is revealing what it wants to be, and I just need to listen.

This process used to frustrate me. I thought I needed to be in control — that a “good” artist mapped everything out from the beginning and followed it to completion. But now I understand that art, like life, is more about discovery than control. Some of my most honest, moving pieces have come from the willingness to let go and simply respond.

The brush, in many ways, knows before I do. It’s connected to something deeper — instinct, emotion, memory — and it often bypasses the part of my brain that tries to plan too much. There’s freedom in that. There’s trust.

I think it’s why painting remains such a joy and mystery to me. Every new piece is an unfolding conversation, a quiet journey. I show up with my whole heart and allow the work to reveal itself.

And that, to me, is where the real magic happens.

Warmest regards,