Just SerenityAcrylic on canvas 20 x 16 inches
Make Pasta
Acrylic on canvas 20 x 16 inches
Do Epic Sh*t
Acrylic on canvas 20 x 16 inches
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He Designed A Life He Loved
Acrylic on canvas
24 x 36 inches
Just Serenity
Painting is the most difficult and the most pleasurable of the creative activities. There are no instruction manuals, no formulas and no set boundaries that can guide you towards a satisfactory, let alone successful, career. But it is the challenge that, when solved, can bring a unique sense of serenity.
I paint with the intention of conveying a message, yes. But that is not the main reason. More than anything, painting gives me a way to channel a creativity that would otherwise remain frustratingly trapped within me. It is a way of giving form to something that, without this outlet, might simply remain inside me, restless and unresolved.
Are the conceptual results of this process profound, or are they ultimately poor? I honestly don’t know. Perhaps that is not even the most important question. What I do know is that when I look at the paintings and they seem reassuring to me, it is because there is something in their balance and their palette that gives me a sense of calm. This is the driver. This is where I spend most of my time: researching the colour combinations and a clean composition. When I look at the large metallic stacks of Donald Judd and the colour schemes of Julian Opie’s 1990s landscapes, this is where I feel my work is most informed by - and, ideally, in dialogue with - their work. I am drawn to the ability of Philip Guston’s late paintings, the series made with a limited number of colours, where pink dominates and brings a sense of calm to an otherwise crowded canvas - the smaller paintings, to be clear. I want that.
Away from what makes it into museums, inspiration also comes from the precision of the road markings on Swiss roads, with their manicured execution and superior-quality paint. It comes from the architectural features of a white-cube gallery, with its microcement flooring detached from the pristine white walls, which in turn merge seamlessly with the ceiling. And the meticulously arranged food at my favourite Japanese restaurant in Abu Dhabi, with its hypnotising hand-slicing process of the ingredients. All of this is deliberately incorporated into my paintings.
Then there is the series of characters that impose themselves at the centre of the canvas. Noisy alter egos with different features, they probably capture the viewer’s attention at first sight. They are cute - I admit that. They bring a message that derives more from my instincts than from any consciously researched idea. Occasionally, I - and I hope “we” - talk silly, think the absurd, and dream the unreal. Cats, dogs, ducks… sentences arranged in a precise graphic manner… these are all decorative. But they are also part of an attempt to reach the higher spectrum of the creative process.
Now, remove these fellows and their idiosyncratic thoughts, and observe my canvases in their purest form. Focus on the carefully researched equilibrium of the composition and the harmony of the colours. You may arrive at the same conclusion I have about why painting brings such serenity.
I paint with the intention of conveying a message, yes. But that is not the main reason. More than anything, painting gives me a way to channel a creativity that would otherwise remain frustratingly trapped within me. It is a way of giving form to something that, without this outlet, might simply remain inside me, restless and unresolved.
Are the conceptual results of this process profound, or are they ultimately poor? I honestly don’t know. Perhaps that is not even the most important question. What I do know is that when I look at the paintings and they seem reassuring to me, it is because there is something in their balance and their palette that gives me a sense of calm. This is the driver. This is where I spend most of my time: researching the colour combinations and a clean composition. When I look at the large metallic stacks of Donald Judd and the colour schemes of Julian Opie’s 1990s landscapes, this is where I feel my work is most informed by - and, ideally, in dialogue with - their work. I am drawn to the ability of Philip Guston’s late paintings, the series made with a limited number of colours, where pink dominates and brings a sense of calm to an otherwise crowded canvas - the smaller paintings, to be clear. I want that.
Away from what makes it into museums, inspiration also comes from the precision of the road markings on Swiss roads, with their manicured execution and superior-quality paint. It comes from the architectural features of a white-cube gallery, with its microcement flooring detached from the pristine white walls, which in turn merge seamlessly with the ceiling. And the meticulously arranged food at my favourite Japanese restaurant in Abu Dhabi, with its hypnotising hand-slicing process of the ingredients. All of this is deliberately incorporated into my paintings.
Then there is the series of characters that impose themselves at the centre of the canvas. Noisy alter egos with different features, they probably capture the viewer’s attention at first sight. They are cute - I admit that. They bring a message that derives more from my instincts than from any consciously researched idea. Occasionally, I - and I hope “we” - talk silly, think the absurd, and dream the unreal. Cats, dogs, ducks… sentences arranged in a precise graphic manner… these are all decorative. But they are also part of an attempt to reach the higher spectrum of the creative process.
Now, remove these fellows and their idiosyncratic thoughts, and observe my canvases in their purest form. Focus on the carefully researched equilibrium of the composition and the harmony of the colours. You may arrive at the same conclusion I have about why painting brings such serenity.
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