I’ve learned to trust my hands in ways I didn’t always understand.
There are moments in the studio when a mark appears before I’ve consciously decided to make it. A color reaches the surface that I didn’t plan for. A rhythm repeats itself without effort. It’s as if something older is guiding the movement—something stored not in thought, but in the body.
We often talk about memory as something that lives in the mind. But the body holds its own archive. Hands remember pressure, pace, hesitation. They remember what it feels like to pause, to layer, to wait. Sometimes they remember experiences that the mind has quietly set aside.
While painting, I’m often reminded that inspiration doesn’t always arrive as a clear image or a story. It can surface through repetition, through muscle memory, through gestures that feel familiar without being obvious. An artwork can emerge from something long lived-in, rather than something newly imagined.
This process feels less like recalling and more like allowing. Allowing space for what wants to return. Allowing the hands to lead for a while, without rushing to interpret or explain. There’s a quiet intelligence in that—one that doesn’t demand clarity right away.
I’ve come to see this as a form of listening. Listening to what the body remembers, even when the mind can’t quite name it yet. In those moments, painting becomes a meeting point between past and present, instinct and intention.
Not everything needs to be understood immediately. Some things simply want to be felt again—briefly, gently—before they move on.