Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to make art in a world that feels increasingly digital, filtered, and automated. Everywhere we turn, we’re presented with images generated by computers, polished to perfection, optimized for clicks and algorithms. There’s something impressive about it, sure — but also something missing.
That’s where gesture, texture, and imperfection come in.
In my practice, I’m finding real comfort in mark making. In the simple act of dragging a brush across canvas. In letting paint pool, drip, scrape, and resist control. These marks carry my energy, my mood, my breath. They show where I hesitated, where I leaned in, where I changed my mind. They hold time.
Abstract painting, for me, is about leaving room for the human hand to be visible. The wobble in a line. The uneven edge. The layered history of a surface. These are the things that can’t be replicated by a machine — not really. They come from lived experience, from being present in my body, from responding to the moment.
I think we’re craving that right now. A reminder that not everything has to be seamless. That beauty can live in the unfinished, the slightly off, the honest. Gesture and texture bring us back to something tangible, something we can feel. They slow us down. They invite us to look closer.
When I’m painting, I’m not chasing perfection. I’m listening. To the rhythm of my hand, to what the colors want to do, to where the painting asks me to pause or push forward. It becomes a quiet conversation. A grounding ritual. In a world that feels loud and fast, the studio is where I can return to myself.
Showing the artist’s hand isn’t about ego — it’s about connection. It says, a real person was here. Someone stood in front of this canvas and made choices. Took risks. Changed direction. Left traces behind.
Just paint. Just presence. Just the simple, honest act of making.