Why I Still Paint

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When I was in graduate school, my professors often questioned painting's relevance. "Do we really need another painting?" they'd ask. Even then images dominated our lives. From movies to advertising to fine art pictures were an integral part of society. These experts insisted there were many other, more "up-to-date" ways to make art.
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Today, that question feels even more urgent. Our lives are now dominated by a constant stream of images on TikTok, Instagram, YouTube, and more. We are oversaturated with entertainment and information, with some posts viewed by more people than we will ever meet.
So, why do I still paint?


The Simple Magic

The most honest answer is that I paint because I love it.

My love for art goes back as far as I can remember. I drew, colored, and painted my way through childhood. Before ever stepping into a museum, I spent hours lost in my parents' art books, or those found in the local library. To me, there is still something utterly magical about using only line and color to capture a moment or express an idea. 

Years later, I hold onto that same feeling of wonder when I look at art from across the globe. While I often discover artists whose work would have gained admiration from those professors, I cannot imagine creating such work. The path I follow centers on a more traditional approach.


Focus: Rooted in the Everyday

Every picture I create begins with an idea or inspiration—sometimes nothing more than a simple glance out the window or a sudden thought about combining specific colors or textures. But my ideas are always firmly rooted in my everyday surroundings.

Next, I turn that initial spark into a still life arrangement, which can be a time-consuming part of the process. The objects, colors, and shapes have to work together in a way that truly captivates me, but also leaves room for questions and exploration. I love patterns and textures, and I especially enjoy combining things like natural objects found on a walk with something manmade.

Take "First Daffodils," for example. It uses just a few objects, but look closer: the smaller shapes inside each form create a visual pathway. Circular forms are repeated throughout this simple composition—the rounded pink "splodges" (a highly technical term, of course!) echo the deep blue dots on the vase, and the dark centers of the daffodil trumpets continue that path of circular shapes.

“First Daffodils” 2024 
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Fun Fact: The "vase" is actually a beautiful cookie tin I couldn't bear to throw away. It may or may not have been the main reason I bought those rather expensive cookies!


Exploration: The Story of Small Things

I fill my paintings with my personal possessions. Some objects are used daily.  Often I include materials found in my garden, or bits and pieces I've collected over the years just because I liked their shape or how they felt in my hand.

These small things and incidental moments in everyday life are the central idea in all my work. Often, I don't realize exactly what drives me to choose certain objects until I begin painting. This is where the exploration truly begins to take over.

As I paint, I am actively trying to discover and explain the concepts behind the still life composition I built. Each arrangement becomes an entry point into an investigation of space, color, and form. Exploring how these objects interact allows me to create the underlying structure that breathes life into the picture.

I also want the painting to be a space where I can lose myself in the development of a visual language. I believe that a large part of my job as a painter is to create a world that first offers the viewer an entry point, and then draws them in so they can lose themselves in the same simple, small moment that captivated me.


Curiosity: Letting the Painting Speak

In thinking about why I paint, I realize that curiosity underlies everything else.

Ideas wander through my mind. A flash of light or color is lodged in my brain, and I need to figure out why. I might ask myself: Will adding this piece of glass make the final image more interesting? What feelings emerge as I work? What should I emphasize or even eliminate?

As the painting progresses, it becomes its own singular entity. I sometimes liken it to raising children: you have ideas about who they will become, but ultimately, they become their own people. If some part of the arrangement, such as the pattern on a fabric, doesn't add to the painting’s evolving direction, it’s alright to let it go. The painting has become its own entity, separate and unique from the still life model. That's just fine. After all, the whole process is one of focus, exploration, and curiosity.


Finally, a Language Without Words

For me, painting is a form of language, a way to express ideas and values that I simply cannot find the words to convey.

Making a painting allows me to share what I see as beautiful or interesting about my small piece of the world. The arrangements are only a starting point. What I see is not just a flower or a table, and this is where words fail me. The patient process of looking, exploring, and making marks slowly reveals what truly intrigued me about the objects in each composition.

Every part of the finished work should offer something to the viewer. The subtle brush marks are just as important as the color or the form. Every item plays a part. Each element contributes to the final ideas and feelings of the viewers.

A painting is complete when I feel that I have successfully laid a clear path of my own, but have also left plenty of room for you, the viewer, to explore and make discoveries of your own. Part of the joy found in looking at art is the discovery of ideas and feelings created by your experience. As long as my work can evoke emotions or ideas, then my paintings are doing their job. 

And, for me, that means painting is still a relevant form of art.