I find Art in itself to be the endless search of nothing. This is in terms of the whole because Art in itself is not simply defined. When looking at the scope of the masses it is undefined because it is determined in different ways by billions of people.

In terms of the Individual, it is defined by the lonely soul that keeps it secret and keeps it safe. Until one day, it is suddenly free to be scrutinized. Naked, undefined, afraid. Much like the portion of the soul it was made with. Apt for judgement and public damnation.

And in spite of that, because I am human. I will persist in this folly. For no other reason because I am human.

A table with a variety of acrylic paints and brushes.

The Instructor and The Student

When I first started, I had no instruction whatsoever, other than my wife who told me I should try it.

I believe there is a good natured yet malevolent spirit in instruction in terms of art. The opinion may be unpopular, but I would argue that it’s true. In doing anything like anyone else, a part of that learning becomes a part of you, which is no doubt a blessing

However, the curse of it is that the beauty of accident, I fear, would be lost! I’ve learned so much for not trying to do things perfect, but to see things in terms of a natural progression. Like a child learning how to tumble and fall, and in this action of simply doing I’ve discovered as Bob Ross would say, “The Joy of Painting.”

Ironically since I do not paint in his style I have not learned much in the way of technique, but I’ve learned something much more precious. His voice, I often lean on the memory of it when I’m uncertain, and unsteady. He’s always there reminding me that it’s ok.

“A Study in Abstract. ”
“Random Sketches”
“Amore”
“Terreurs”
“Aestimatio sui”
“Black on White”