What Nearness Reveals

In the early stages, I almost cling to the canvas. The blending of colors, the tremor before the paint dries, the accidental marks—these cannot be seen from afar.

Within details, something more honest than intention appears. Unplanned lines, traces left behind. My hesitation quietly settles there.

To move closer is to confront my own incompleteness. Nothing can be disguised. Still, I lean in—because I do not wish to look away.

What Distance Allows

Then, at some point, I step back. I walk to the far wall of the studio and stand in silence. Only then does the painting begin to breathe.

Where is its center of gravity? Do the colors clash? Is the silence intact?

From a distance, I can see the work as if it were no longer mine. Closeness may be passion; distance may be reason. Both are necessary. The painting lives in their exchange.

The Distance of Completion

Completion often arrives when I am standing farthest away.

Up close, there is always something more I could add. Another layer, another texture. But if, from afar, the surface rests in quiet balance, I lay down the brush.

Sometimes not touching is the most faithful gesture. A painting, too, needs space to breathe.

The Viewer’s Distance

In an exhibition, another distance is born. Some viewers approach closely; others remain far away.

I cannot control that, nor should I. Each position reveals a different landscape. Perhaps that margin—the space between us—is also part of the work.