Music and Abstract Painting: Painting Melodies You Can't Hear
When I stand in front of my canvas, there is always music there. On quiet mornings, it's Bach; late at night, it's Bill Evans. Music is not just background noise for me. It is the breath that helps me choose colors, an invisible conductor that tells me when to put down my brush.
When I paint abstract art, people sometimes ask me, "What are you expressing?" Each time, I smile a little, unable to put it into words. That's because, for me, painting is not something to be "explained," but rather something to be "heard." When we listen to music and tears come to our eyes, even if there is no clear story, we are definitely receiving something. I want abstract painting to be that kind of experience.
Painting not the melody, but the space between
For instance, when listening to Bach's Goldberg Variations, I find myself listening more intently to the silence that floats between the notes than to the melodies themselves. Within the regularly unfolding structure, a sudden fluctuation appears. That slight shadow gives the music its depth.
Abstract painting is the same. Color is the melody, composition the harmony. But what I truly wish to paint is the "space" between them. The faint traces of the ground beneath layered paint, the deliberately left blank spaces. They are like rests in music. It is precisely because of the rests that the notes come alive.
When I face the canvas, I first seek rhythm. The speed at which I set the brush, the force with which I wipe away paint, the shift of my body's center of gravity. All are guided by an invisible beat. It feels less like painting and more like my body reacting to sound and moving.
The courage to improvise
At night, I sometimes paint while listening to Bill Evans' Waltz for Debby. His piano playing is somewhat hesitant, yet full of conviction. The moment of silence before the sound is placed. That "pause" gives me important inspiration for my work.
There are no blueprints for abstract paintings. Of course, I have a concept. But in the end, I have no choice but to proceed while interacting with chance. Colors bleed, and unexpected lines are born. It takes courage to accept that moment.
Just like improvising music, I improvise on the canvas. Overthinking makes the painting rigid. Yet surrendering too much to chaos leads to distraction. Finding that delicate balance in between is the true joy of creation.
When I gaze at a finished painting, I search for "sound" within it. Deep colors like a low-resonating bass. White dots like faintly swaying hi-hats. If viewers can hear their own melodies within it, I believe no further explanation is needed.
Turning unheard sounds into color
Music is said to be the art of time, painting the art of space. Yet I feel their boundaries are not as clear-cut as we might think. Listening to music, colors sometimes emerge—deep blue, murky gold, or pale gray. Conversely, viewing certain color combinations can trigger specific chords to resonate in my mind.
My creative process exists within this back-and-forth movement. Translating sound into color, then releasing color back into sound. Perhaps abstract painting is an attempt to visualize unheard melodies.
Today, once again, I quietly play music and stand before the canvas. What will be painted there, even I do not know. The only certainty is this: I want to paint pictures that leave a lingering resonance somewhere, even after the sound has faded. That very resonance, I believe, is the "wind" for me.