Before the first brushstroke

Silence before creation.

“It is not the painter who chooses the painting, it is the painting that chooses the painter.” — Georges Braque

Most people think a painting starts the moment color hits canvas. As if it were instant magic: paint → canvas → artwork.
For me, it starts much earlier. In silence. In emptiness. In that invisible space where the work decides whether it wants to be born.

What comes first
Every series demands its own logic. I’ve seen canvases turn into fragments of memory, into bodies moving, into landscapes to explore. I never repeat the path. Each exhibition forces me to unlearn and invent a new way of thinking.

That’s the risk: walking into a forest I’ve never crossed, with no map, no promise of a way out. And yet — stubbornly hoping there will be light.

Order and chaos at the table
I can sketch plans, fill notebooks with ideas, rehearse in my head. But when the moment comes: color chooses its destiny, gesture takes over, the painting responds. And me? I follow.
It’s in that tense balance between order and chaos that the work reveals itself — and often surprises me more than it surprises you.

The real secret
Maybe the secret is not mastering painting. Maybe it’s just this: preparing the space so that it can happen. Like clearing a path and waiting for the light to break through.

👉 Café conclusion: painting doesn’t begin on canvas, but in the space we open for it to exist. And in December, I’ll be opening that space with you.