BLANKAPESJA

Some inner existential sensitivities cannot be spoken—they must be seen.​ When words fail there is the image. There are places language cannot reach—spaces where meaning dissolves under the weight of what cannot be spoken.
Words are linear, bound by syntax and sequence, while painting exists simultaneously, a totality captured in a single glance.

Painting bypasses the mind’s defenses, cutting straight to the gut, the heart, and the marrow. A brushstroke can carry grief, joy, or longing without ever needing to name them. With its depth and richness, oil paint does not ask to be interpreted—it asks to be felt.

However, oil paint is not merely a medium—it is a negotiation with time. It resists immediacy, demanding patience from the artist and offering ​the promise of extended permanence in return. Each brushstroke is not simply pigment on canvas but a decision, a moment suspended in oil, preserved against ​speedy decay. It is both substance and symbol—a bridge between the fleeting human gesture and the enduring physical world.

Once upon a time I considered myself to be an artist with the sun in my hands. These days, being more pragmatic, I long for energy and time on my hands.
If I wish for one thing in 2025, it is to be able to paint again, and more and more.

Gratitude to photographer Jonathan de Waard