The Quiet Pull of Abstract Art

Abstract art, for me, has always been less about what’s seen and more about what’s felt. It’s the language I speak when words fall short. Each piece I create is an attempt to touch something intangible, an emotion, memory, energy and make it visible. I’ve never been interested in capturing the world as it appears. I want to distill what’s underneath, what pulses just beneath the surface of things.

Of all the artists who have shaped the way I think about painting, Mark Rothko stands out the most. His use of scale in particular has left a deep mark on my own practice. There’s something undeniably powerful about the way he created vast fields of colour that seem to pull you in completely. It’s not just that they’re large it’s that they envelop you. They demand presence. I remember the first time I stood in front of one of his works. It didn’t feel like looking at a painting; it felt like being inside it. That experience changed how I thought about the space a painting could occupy not just on the wall, but in the body and mind of the viewer.

This sense of scale is something I return to again and again in my own work. I want people to feel like they’re entering a space, not just observing one. Whether I’m working with vibrant, layered textures or more restrained, quiet compositions, I’m always thinking about how a piece can breathe how it can hold space and hold attention. I want the work to be immersive, to give people a moment of pause, a shift in rhythm, a feeling that they’ve touched something raw or real.

There’s a kind of vulnerability in working abstractly. Without familiar forms to lean on, there’s nothing to hide behind. Every mark, every color choice, carries its own weight. But that’s also where the freedom lives. Abstract art allows for a different kind of honesty a space where both the artist and the viewer can bring their own meaning. That open endedness, that invitation to interpret and feel without needing to “understand,” is what keeps me coming back to the canvas.

Selling my work is a natural extension of making it. I don’t see it as letting go, but rather as letting the pieces continue their lives elsewhere. If someone can live with one of my paintings and feel that same quiet pull I once felt in front of a Rothko, then I’ve done my job.