My artistic philosophy is something I’m still developing. What follows is my current understanding of why I make the work I make, how I see the world, and what I hope to explore through painting.

Perception, Presence, and the Reimagining of the Ordinary

I have always been drawn to color. Not simply as an aesthetic quality, but as a way of experiencing the world. Color affects me physically and emotionally; it can make a space feel warm or cool, energetic or calm, inviting or sterile. I surround myself with it in my everyday life, and I am instinctively drawn toward saturated colors, dramatic contrasts, complementary relationships, and combinations that seem to vibrate against one another. Muted environments often leave me feeling uninspired and disengaged. Color, by contrast, makes me want to look. It makes me curious. It makes the world feel alive.

This relationship with color is inseparable from my understanding of perception. I am less interested in reproducing the world exactly as it exists than in depicting how the world becomes meaningful through an individual’s experience of it. To me, accuracy and authenticity are not necessarily synonymous. A realistic representation may accurately describe the physical appearance of a place, person, or object, but it does not necessarily describe what that thing feels like to experience. Our perceptions are shaped by memory, emotion, environment, personal history, expectation, and countless other biases. What we see is never entirely separate from who we are.

Because of this, I believe that an artist’s interpretation can sometimes be more truthful than literal representation.

This is one of the reasons I am drawn to artists such as André Derain and to the broader history of Fauvism and Impressionism. What interests me in these movements is not simply their use of bright color, but their willingness to allow perception to interfere with accuracy. A landscape does not have to remain the color that a landscape is “supposed” to be. Shadows do not have to be black. Trees do not have to be green. Color can become a vehicle for sensation rather than description. The artist becomes visible within the image.

That visibility is important to me.

When I look at an extremely realistic landscape painting, I can appreciate the technical skill required to create it, but I sometimes find myself thinking: Where is the artist? I see the landscape, but I do not necessarily see the person who experienced it. I am interested in what happens when the artist refuses to disappear behind accuracy. I want to see their preferences, their biases, their imagination, their sense of beauty, their decisions. I want to see evidence that the world has passed through another person’s mind before becoming an image.

That is what I want for my own work as well. I want my perception to remain visible.

My approach to color is therefore intuitive, but it is not arbitrary. I am drawn to highly saturated colors because they stimulate me. Complementary colors appeal to me because of the tension they create. Warm and cool contrasts can alter the perceived atmosphere of a space. Deep hues layered beneath transparent colors can create a sense of depth and luminosity that I find almost intoxicating. Colors such as quinacridone magenta and dioxazine purple are particularly exciting to work with because of the ways they change when layered and placed against other colors. I am interested in what happens when colors begin to vibrate against one another and create an experience that cannot be reduced to the literal appearance of the subject.

In that sense, color becomes more than decoration. It becomes a way of altering perception.

I want an ordinary room to feel dreamlike. I want a city to feel almost cyberpunk. I want an everyday environment to feel like somewhere a viewer could physically walk into. I want color to influence the emotional temperature of a scene. The goal is not necessarily to make reality prettier. Sometimes I want to make it stranger. Sometimes I want to make it louder. Sometimes I simply want to make it more alive.

This desire to heighten reality is connected to another fundamental part of my practice: my resistance to visual conventions that have become predictable.

I have never been particularly interested in following a rule simply because it is a rule. When a visual convention becomes repetitive, I lose interest in it. I am not opposed to tradition itself; I am opposed to the assumption that something should continue to be done in a particular way simply because it has always been done that way.

My painting A Girl and Her Cat is an example of this impulse. Traditional flower paintings often establish an obvious hierarchy: the flowers are the subject, while the background exists primarily to support them. The flowers are given visual importance and the surrounding environment is subdued. I found that approach predictable and uninteresting. Rather than abandoning the subject, I wanted to challenge the way it was being presented. I made the flowers large and prominent, but I also made the surrounding environment equally loud. The background was not allowed to politely disappear. It competed with the flowers.

The point was not to make a statement about flower paintings in any grand sense. I simply wanted to see what would happen if I refused to accept the expected hierarchy.

That impulse—to ask why? when confronted with a convention—is fundamental to the way I work.

I experienced a similar frustration in life drawing. I understood the value of observation and technical practice, but I found myself becoming bored when experimentation was discouraged. I did not want to simply reproduce what was in front of me. I wanted to find out what else I could do with it. I have always been drawn toward unusual perspectives, visual density, unexpected compositions, and ways of making an image feel less predetermined. I am interested in technique, but I do not want technique to become a cage.

For me, nontradition is not synonymous with rejecting skill. In fact, technical ability is what gives me the freedom to challenge convention. The more capable I become of depicting people, architecture, environments, and objects, the more freedom I have to manipulate them. I can distort something because I know what I am distorting. I can depart from reality because I understand what reality is doing.

My approach to subject matter has also begun to change. Much of my earlier work was rooted in anthropology, culture, and unfamiliar places. Growing up in a small town, I have often felt a strong desire to experience worlds beyond my immediate surroundings. Painting became one way of exploring the unfamiliar. Through painting, I could encounter places and cultures that I had not physically experienced and bring them into my own visual language.

More recently, I have become increasingly interested in ordinary life.

People sitting.

People walking.

People existing without posing.

A particular corner of a city.

A room.

A storefront.

A fleeting arrangement of objects.

A moment that might otherwise disappear almost immediately.

This shift does not represent a departure from my earlier interests so much as a change in where I am looking for the unfamiliar. I am beginning to find that the ordinary can become unfamiliar when I look at it closely enough.

I am fascinated by people existing without performing for the viewer. A person sitting somewhere, caught in a moment they never intended to become an image, can feel more honest to me than a carefully constructed pose. There is something compelling about the knowledge that this moment existed only briefly. That person has an entire life outside the frame. They have experiences, memories, relationships, fears, desires, routines, and perceptions that I will never know. Yet for a moment, our lives intersect through observation.

Sometimes I paint that moment because it feels significant.

Sometimes I paint it because the person is sitting in a really interesting way.

Both reasons are valid.

I do not believe a subject has to be historically important, culturally significant, or conventionally beautiful to deserve attention. Small moments matter precisely because most of human existence consists of them. We sit, wait, eat, walk, talk, work, rest, and exist. These moments are fleeting and largely unremarkable, yet they make up our lives.

Painting allows me to give those moments permanence.

A photograph can preserve what something looked like. A painting allows me to preserve something else: my experience of looking at it.

One of my paintings, Slice of Life, originated from a photograph I took in New York City. I was interested in the composition and the environment, but I did not want the painting to function as a literal reproduction of the photograph. I wanted to heighten the atmosphere. I wanted the deep blue and heavy color contrasts to create something dreamlike and almost cyberpunk. I wanted the viewer to feel as though they could enter the space.

The photograph documented the place.

The painting became my experience of the place.

That distinction is central to my practice.

I am interested in what happens when an artist takes something recognizable and filters it through their own perception until it becomes something that could not have existed without them.

This is also why I am comfortable with the fact that my paintings often begin intuitively. I rarely have a completely predetermined image in my head before I begin. I may know that I am attracted to a particular composition, color relationship, person, or place, but the painting itself develops through the process of making. I respond to what is happening on the canvas. I discover things. I make changes. I embrace happy accidents. Sometimes something I did unintentionally becomes more compelling than what I had originally imagined.

In this sense, I want both control and uncertainty.

I want to be able to execute an idea when I have one, but I also want the painting to surprise me.

That is part of why the process of painting is so important to me.

I become completely absorbed in it. Sometimes I work without music or any other distraction. Time disappears. I become hyperfocused on individual decisions—the movement of a brush, the interaction between two colors, the balance of a composition, the gradual emergence of the image. There is a sense of calm and excitement that exists simultaneously. Sometimes it is almost euphoric.

The finished painting matters to me, but it is not the primary reason I paint.

If someone offered me the ability to instantly create every painting I have ever wanted, without requiring me to actually make them, I would refuse. I would lose the part that matters most.

I would lose the looking.

I would lose the experimentation.

I would lose the problem-solving.

I would lose the happy accidents.

I would lose the physical act of putting paint onto a surface.

I would lose the feeling of becoming completely absorbed in something I am creating.

Painting makes me feel like myself.

That is perhaps the simplest and most honest explanation of why I continue to do it.

I also do not feel that my paintings need to communicate one fixed message to the viewer. I struggled with this expectation throughout my undergraduate education. I was often asked what I was “trying to say,” as though a painting needed to contain a single proposition that I had consciously constructed beforehand. That question always felt somewhat foreign to the way I worked.

I am not opposed to meaning. I am interested in meaning. I am deeply interested in what other people see in my work. What fascinates me is that their perception does not have to match mine.

In fact, I prefer when it doesn’t.

I do not want to stand beside a painting and tell someone what they are supposed to understand. I want to hear what they experienced. I want to know what they noticed first, what they felt, what memories it brought up, what they found beautiful, strange, uncomfortable, or compelling.

The viewer’s perception becomes another experience layered onto mine.

I make the image.

They encounter it.

Something happens between those two things.

The response I find most gratifying is not necessarily someone telling me that they understand the concept. It is someone telling me, “The colors are insane,” or “This place feels alive,” or “I feel like I could walk into this.” The phrase I have heard several times that means the most to me is simply, “I could stare at this forever.”

That tells me the painting has succeeded at the thing I care about most.

It has engaged someone.

It has given them a reason to keep looking.

It has created an experience rather than simply presenting an object.

Ultimately, I think my work comes from a desire to remain engaged with the world.

I am easily bored by repetition, mundanity, and visual sameness. I am constantly looking for something interesting: a strange composition, a particular color relationship, an unfamiliar place, an unusual posture, a fleeting moment, a visual contradiction. When something catches my attention, I want to stay with it. Painting gives me a way to do that.

It also gives me a way to construct the kind of world I want to experience.

I am drawn to colorful spaces, unusual environments, dreamlike aesthetics, dramatic lighting, and worlds that feel larger and stranger than ordinary life. I love the feeling of stepping somewhere and suddenly feeling that I have entered another reality. Painting gives me a similar ability. I can take the world as it exists and push it toward the world I want to see.

That is not necessarily escapism.

It is interpretation.

It is authorship.

It is perception.

And perhaps most importantly, it is freedom.

I do not want to make paintings that simply confirm what I already know. I want enough stability in my visual language to recognize myself, but enough freedom to continue experimenting. I expect my work to change. I expect my interests to move. I expect to break my own conventions eventually, just as I have broken other people’s.

I am not particularly interested in finding one style and remaining inside it forever.

I am interested in developing a language that is recognizably mine while remaining open enough to evolve.

For me, authenticity does not mean reproducing reality accurately. It means allowing my perception to exist honestly within the work. It means allowing myself to choose the colors that feel right rather than the colors that are “correct.” It means allowing composition to become strange, atmosphere to become exaggerated, and ordinary moments to become extraordinary. It means refusing to disappear behind convention.

I want to see the artist.

And I want to be seen.

Not necessarily understood.

Not necessarily agreed with.

Not necessarily interpreted correctly.

My paintings are ultimately records of the things that made me stop and look. They are attempts to hold onto fleeting experiences, transform ordinary environments, explore unfamiliar worlds, and construct images that remain alive to me long enough that I want to keep looking.

The greatest measure of success for me is therefore not recognition, sales, or even whether a particular painting becomes important within the art world. Those things would be wonderful, and I certainly enjoy being praised for my work. But they are not why I paint.

I paint because the act of painting makes me feel fully engaged with my own existence.

I paint because it gives me somewhere to put my curiosity.

I paint because it lets me make the world stranger, brighter, more stimulating, more beautiful, and more mine.

I paint because I love it.

And, after a lifetime of doing it, if all I have accomplished is having spent my years making something that brought me genuine fulfillment—and eventually teaching another generation of people how to make things of their own—I would consider that a life well spent.

Color and Culture

Color functions as both a perceptual phenomenon and a cultural system of meaning. While color is processed physiologically, its interpretation is largely constructed through social, historical, and environmental contexts. Across cultures, color operates symbolically; encoding values related to spirituality, power, gender, life, death, and identity. These meanings are neither universal nor fixed; rather, they are learned, negotiated, and transformed over time through ritual, tradition, and collective experience. As a result, color becomes a visual language through which cultures articulate their relationship to the world.

Philosophers and theorists have long examined color as an experiential force rather than a purely optical one. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe emphasized the psychological and emotional dimensions of color perception, arguing that color generates affect before rational interpretation. Wassily Kandinsky expanded this idea, proposing that color has an intrinsic spiritual resonance capable of eliciting inner responses independent of representational form. Anthropological scholarship further situates color within systems of symbolism, demonstrating how societies assign meaning to color based on environmental conditions, cosmology, and social structure (as seen in the work of Claude Lévi-Strauss and Victor Turner). Within this framework, color operates as a cultural artifact—one that reflects belief systems as much as visual preference.

Engaging with color through a cross-cultural lens raises critical questions about interpretation, representation, and exchange. When color is removed from its original cultural context and re-presented elsewhere, its meaning may shift, expand, or become contested. This tension invites dialogue about how viewers engage with imagery inspired by distant places and cultures, and how color can function as both an entry point and a boundary. By foregrounding color as a culturally embedded form of meaning, this philosophy positions painting as a site of inquiry—where perception, symbolism, and cultural understanding intersect.

My Philosophy on the subjectivity of Art—the classification of art, and intentionalism.

For me, art is inherently subjective—it's a conversation between the creator and the viewer, shaped by personal taste, cultural context, and the time period in which the artwork exists. There is no fixed, universal definition of what is "good" or "bad" art because what is valued shifts over time. For instance, what might have been considered revolutionary and misunderstood when it was first created, like abstract expressionism, might now be hailed as a masterpiece. Art evolves with society’s changing ideals, and because of this fluidity, it's impossible to pin down what makes something universally "good" or "bad." Art isn’t just about technical skill or following established traditions; it’s about the emotions it evokes, the conversations it starts, and the stories it tells. Whether it’s a traditional painting, a digital illustration, or even computer code, the value of art comes from the messages, ideas, or emotions it conveys. Even what some might dismiss as “bad” art can be meaningful—it often depends on the context and the personal connection that a viewer forms with the piece. What is considered "bad" art at one moment in history could be seen as groundbreaking or transformative in another. Ultimately, the beauty of art lies in the fact that it’s open to interpretation, and its impact lies in its ability to provoke thought and emotion.

One key concept I hold dear is intentionalism, which suggests that the meaning and value of an artwork are shaped by the intentions of the artist. This philosophical standpoint argues that to truly understand and appreciate a piece of art, we must consider what the artist intended to express when they created it. The artist’s thoughts, emotions, and goals are fundamental to interpreting the work. While viewers are free to bring their own interpretations to the table, intentionalism asserts that understanding the artist’s purpose enriches our understanding of the piece. Philosophers have debated this for centuries. Immanuel Kant, for example, argued that art is not just about technical skill but also about its aesthetic experience—a shared emotional and cognitive engagement between the artist, the artwork, and the audience. Kant emphasized that the artist’s intention plays a crucial role in shaping this experience. In his Critique of Judgment, Kant suggested that a work of art has value not only through its form but through the deeper understanding of the purpose behind it. This resonates with my view that the artist’s creative process is intertwined with the message they aim to convey.

In a similar vein, Leo Tolstoy in his essay What is Art? argued that art should not only express the artist’s emotions but also communicate a moral or emotional truth that resonates with the viewer. Tolstoy believed that art’s primary function is to evoke empathy and understanding in its audience, creating a sense of shared experience. For Tolstoy, the artist's intention was essential, as art was a means of transmitting a deep and universal human truth. He argued that good art should leave the viewer feeling enlightened or moved, creating a bridge between the artist’s inner world and the world of the audience. This ties back to the idea that an artist’s intent is crucial—art isn’t just a random expression but a purposeful engagement with the world that aims to communicate something meaningful.

However, not everyone agrees with intentionalism. For example, philosophers Wimsatt and Beardsley introduced the idea of the "intentional fallacy," arguing that the artist’s intentions should not determine the value of a work of art. They believed that the artwork should be judged by the final product and its ability to stand on its own, rather than by the hidden motivations of the artist. According to this perspective, art is open to personal interpretation, and its meaning lies in the viewer’s engagement with it, not in uncovering what the artist "meant." While I understand this perspective, I still believe that considering the artist’s intention offers valuable insight into the piece and can deepen our connection with it.

In my own creative practice, I view art as a deeply personal yet communicative act. Whether I’m creating traditional paintings, digital designs, or even coding a program, I see each act of creation as a process filled with intention. For me, the purpose behind the creation is just as important as the form it takes. When I paint or design, there’s always something I want to express—whether that’s a personal emotion, an exploration of an idea, or simply a message I want to share with the world. I believe that art is more than just visual or technical—it’s a language of human experience. That’s why I believe in the importance of intentionalism in art: it’s the bridge between the creator’s inner world and the viewer’s interpretation. Of course, everyone will interpret art in their own way, but understanding the creator's intention adds a layer of depth and meaning. Art, at its core, is about communication—whether that’s through colors, shapes, or even abstract forms.

I also believe that what is considered "art" can be expansive and fluid. Philosophers like Arthur Danto have argued that art is not confined to any one medium or tradition, but is instead defined by the context and the intentions behind it. Danto famously said that anything can be art, provided it is understood within the framework of its artistic context. That’s why I believe that even something like computer code, or an architectural design, can be seen as art if the creator brings creativity, intention, and expression into the process. The boundaries of art are constantly evolving, and what matters most is the intent behind the work—the purpose of the creator to express something meaningful or to spark a conversation.

In the end, I believe that art is not a static concept—it’s a living, breathing entity that evolves with time, culture, and society. While it will always be subjective, one thing remains clear: art is about the connection it fosters between the creator, the work, and the viewer. Understanding the artist’s intention adds depth and context, but it’s also about the experience the work offers, how it speaks to us, and how it challenges or reaffirms our perspectives on the world.

Defending Intentionalism and Discussing the Intentional Fallacy:

The intentional fallacy is a concept that was introduced by literary critics W.K. Wimsatt and Monroe Beardsley in their essay The Intentional Fallacy (1946). They argued that it is a mistake to focus on the artist's intentions when interpreting a work of art. According to them, the artist's intentions are unknowable and irrelevant to the final meaning of the artwork. Instead, they argued, the value and meaning of a piece of art should be judged solely by the final product itself—how it stands on its own, how it engages the viewer, and how the viewer interacts with it. In this view, the artist’s personal thoughts, emotions, or purpose behind the work are secondary to the work’s existence in the world, and how it resonates with the audience.

While I understand the basis of the intentional fallacy, I don’t fully agree with its complete dismissal of the artist’s intentions. The complexity of human experience makes art an incredibly rich form of communication, and the creator’s purpose plays a vital role in guiding the viewer to understand the deeper layers of meaning within a piece. Art is an act of conscious creation, and for me, the artist's intentions are intrinsic to understanding the work.

Why Intentions Matter:

If we take art as a form of communication, it is reasonable to consider the intent behind that communication. When an artist creates, there is usually a purpose—whether it’s an exploration of a personal emotion, a societal message, or a purely creative exploration. The artist’s intention is what imbues the work with its depth, whether that depth is emotional, intellectual, or philosophical. For example, if an artist creates a painting with the intent to express grief, that intention shapes how the color palette, brushstrokes, and composition come together to evoke that emotion. Understanding that intention enriches the viewer's experience of the work. It provides context and helps the viewer interpret the piece more deeply.

However, I also recognize the validity of Wimsatt and Beardsley’s point: the viewer’s interpretation matters. The final product—the painting, sculpture, song, etc.—exists in the world outside of the artist’s mind. If the artist chooses not to share their intention or if their intention is unclear, the work becomes open to subjective interpretation. The viewer’s personal experiences, emotions, and perspectives will influence how they engage with the art. This is where the complexity of art comes into play. The experience of art is never the same for any two individuals because every person brings their own unique worldview and personal history to the piece. For example, a painting that was created to express joy might resonate differently with a viewer who’s recently gone through hardship—they might interpret it in a way that reflects their personal experience, even if that wasn’t the artist’s original intent.

The Personal Nature of Artistic Interpretation:

Our life experiences and perceptions shape how we interpret art. A piece that evokes happiness for one person may evoke sadness or nostalgia in another. This subjectivity is at the heart of why art is so powerful—because it allows the viewer to connect to it on a personal level. Our individual perceptions and experiences lead us to form unique interpretations. That’s why it’s entirely possible for two people to look at the same painting and come away with entirely different emotional or intellectual responses. No one can experience a work of art exactly the same way because each person’s life is a collection of unique experiences that filters how they perceive the world.

For example, if I create a piece meant to evoke feelings of love and connection, but a viewer who has experienced heartbreak sees it and feels a sense of loss instead, their interpretation is valid. Even if it’s not what I intended, it’s their experience of the artwork. Art speaks to the individual, and the emotions or ideas it stirs up are deeply personal. That’s why art is both universal and personal—it can reflect broad human themes while being interpreted differently by every individual. So while I firmly believe in intentionalism, I also accept that art can be interpreted based on the final result, especially if the artist does not disclose their intentions.

The Elephant Example:

I also want to emphasize a point I made earlier about intentionality and the difference between something created by a conscious creator versus a non-human agent. For example, an elephant might create an image by randomly applying paint to a canvas, but that process lacks the intentionality that we associate with human art. Elephants don’t have an understanding of art as a concept; they’re simply engaging in an act that could produce a visual result. This creates a clear distinction between mere process and art—the latter requires a conscious, purposeful act of creation with an intent to communicate something meaningful.

This doesn’t mean that the resulting piece from an elephant or an animal can’t be visually interesting, but it lacks the deeper complexity that comes from a conscious human artist with an understanding of their purpose behind the creation. The elephant’s art, though perhaps visually appealing, doesn’t carry the intentionality of an artist who has an understanding of the emotional or intellectual meaning they want to convey. Consciousness and intention are what separate art from random processes or patterns found in nature or created by non-human creatures.

Reconciling Both Sides:

At the same time, I do believe that art should also be judged based on its final product, especially if the artist doesn’t provide any explanation or context for their work. If an artist creates a piece and leaves it open to interpretation, the viewer is free to form their own meaning based on their personal experiences. This is a perfectly valid way to engage with art, and the piece can be judged based on how it resonates with the viewer, regardless of the artist’s original intention. The viewer’s engagement with the work is a legitimate and important part of the artistic experience.

Art, after all, is a dialogue between the artist and the audience. The artist speaks through the piece, but the viewer completes the conversation with their interpretation. If an artist chooses not to share their intention or leaves it ambiguous, the viewer is free to explore the piece in their own way. And in many cases, the work becomes even more profound when left open to interpretation, allowing the viewer to insert their own emotions, memories, and experiences into the piece.

In Conclusion:

While I strongly believe in intentionalism—the idea that the artist’s intentions shape and deepen the understanding of their work—I also recognize that the final product of art holds its own value. If the artist does not communicate their intentions, or if those intentions are unclear, it’s perfectly valid for the viewer to engage with the work based on their own perspective. The subjectivity of art is what makes it so dynamic and personal. But, in my view, the intent behind the creation of the piece should not be overlooked entirely, as it is the foundation upon which the work is built. It’s the artist’s conscious act of creation that brings depth and meaning to the final piece, and understanding that intention gives the viewer a more nuanced experience.