There is a moment in every painting when I have to stop thinking.
Not because the mind is wrong – but because it is too slow. Too careful. Too afraid of making a mistake.
The intuitive process begins where control ends.
It is not chaos. It is not random. It is a deeper kind of knowing – one that lives in the body before it reaches the brain. A pull toward a color before you understand why. A mark on the canvas that surprises you. A layer that appears and asks to stay.
I have learned to trust these moments.
Not immediately. Trust like this is built slowly – through practice, through failure, through the willingness to stay with a painting that isn’t working and ask it what it needs rather than telling it what to do.
The intuitive process is a conversation.
The canvas speaks first. You listen. You respond. Sometimes you argue. Sometimes you surrender. And sometimes – in those rare, quiet moments – something appears that you could never have planned.
That is when the painting becomes alive.
This is what I seek every time I pick up a brush. Not perfection. Not a predetermined result. But that aliveness – that tickling feeling that tells me something true is happening.
If a painting stops surprising me, it stops being worth making.
The intuitive process is not a technique. It is a practice of trust. In the unknown. In the layers. In yourself.
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