Between Two Ways of Being

Lately, I had been noticing how easily life enters the surface of a painting long before I consciously understand it.

These recent works became increasingly textured, layered and physical, and at the time I thought it was simply a visual direction I was moving through. I scraped into the paint, interrupted the surface, built density almost instinctively, without questioning it too much while I worked.

Only later, when I finally sat down and began reflecting on the paintings more deeply, did I begin to understand where that impulse had been coming from.

By then, I had already spent two weeks back working as a cruise manager.

And with a little distance from the paintings, I could suddenly recognise traces of that transition everywhere in their surfaces.

Even before returning to work, a certain part of me had already started waking up again — organisation, multitasking, constant awareness, movement, problem-solving, structure. A sharper mental rhythm. A way of functioning that feels active, outward-facing and endlessly responsive.

Looking at the paintings afterwards, I realised how much that energy had quietly entered the work itself.

The right side of this painting still carries much of that feeling.

Its surface became denser, rougher, more compact. Layers gathered there. Pigment thickened. Marks remained visible. Even the blue traces began feeling less like painted forms and more like something material entering another substance — as if a heavier liquid were slowly dissolving into a lighter one. The edges softened and spread beyond control, like ink dispersing through water or sediment moving through a current.

And then there were the small grains scattered across the surface, especially visible around the yellow. Tiny particles that reminded me of pollen and mineral dust — something both earthly and atmospheric at once.

At the time, I did not consciously connect any of this to what was happening in my life.

But with distance, the paintings suddenly made emotional sense to me in a new way.

Because alongside that sharper, operational energy, there was also another part of me quietly moving further into the background. A softer part. Slower. More receptive. Less interested in structure or control.

I think that is why the left side of the painting gradually became lighter and more open.

Not empty, but breathing differently.

Looking at the finished work now, I feel that both energies remained inside it.

One side gathers density, movement and tension. The other loosens, softens and allows things to dissolve.

Neither one feels complete on its own.

And perhaps the painting only became whole once neither side was trying to dominate the other.