The Language of Paint: When Colors Speak Louder Than Words
As water floods the paper, colors spread and pool, some metallic, others sheer. The pigments flow like a slow-moving river, leaving streaks and patterns as they settle—each one a lesson in patience.
I’m a self-taught abstract expressionist painter, using art to explore and convey the emotional landscapes of my inner world. Abstract art allows me to break free from the constraints of realism, offering endless possibilities with every color.
Each session I press the paintbrush firmly against the paper, the bristles release streaks—some delicate and wispy, others bold and jagged. Each deliberate stroke reflects the chaos within, translating the disarray of a mind grappling with creative anxiety and depression into something tangible.
Acrylic ink blooms into flower-like shapes as it splashes onto the page. Expressive blobs of paint scatter, forming an emotional landscape, chaotic and raw. The shimmering hues of acrylic paint glow under my living room lamps, telling a story—my story.
Art as therapy for mental health became my saving grace. Where words fail, I speak in color—sometimes soft and subtle, other times a flood, bursting through like riverbanks in a storm.
The paint clings to the paper much like emotions cling to me—unshakable, vivid, and relentless. Each layer, each stroke, becomes a reflection of a moment I cannot quite put into words. Each colors on the canvas is a conversation between the brush and my soul—chaotic yet deliberate, messy yet cathartic. But this wasn’t always my reality. Before I found my language in abstract painting, I was lost, searching for something to fill the empty spaces.
Rock Bottom and Empty Canvases: A Story of Depression at 24
It was the summer of 2019, and my life felt like it was stuck in a monotone loop. I had been working at a burger joint, a job that drained my energy and left me feeling hollow, but even that ended when I lost the job in May 2019. Afterward, I sank into weeks of lethargy, sprawled on my couch like a wounded animal, numbing myself with endless hours of TV. Between losing my job and committing to a self-imposed 90-day dating fast, I didn’t have a clue who I was or what I wanted to do.
I only got up to eat or shuffle to the bathroom. My coffee table became a landfill of crumpled candy wrappers, empty chip bags, and dented soda cans. The kitchen sink overflowed with dishes stacked precariously high, threatening to crash onto the floor. My bedroom floor was no better—buried under a sea of clothes and shoes, a chaotic blend of clean and dirty piles that made the floor beneath them almost invisible. It was a stifling, gross scene that perfectly reflected the mental health struggles I felt inside.
I was moody and restless, trapped in a cycle of meaninglessness.
Back then, I had a terrible habit of endlessly scrolling through social media, comparing my life to the polished feeds of my high school and college peers. At 24, I felt like a nobody—a dropout with no job, no direction, and no interests beyond reruns of Dr. Phil. My feed was a highlight reel of thriving careers, glamorous social lives, and extravagant vacations. Each post was another reminder of how far behind I was.
From Fast Food to Fine Art: An Accidental Artist’s Beginning
Desperate to escape the crushing ennui, I decided to pick up a new creative outlet. Gardening seemed like a good idea, even though my track record with plants was dismal. So, I headed to Walmart to buy a plant, pushing a heavy cart through the aisles.
As I maneuvered toward the gardening section, something caught my eye: an aisle filled with beginner art supplies. Rows of acrylic paint bottles, blank canvases, and brushes gleamed under the fluorescent lights. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I paused. The vibrant tubes of paint pulled me in, almost whispering an invitation.
On a complete whim, I abandoned my gardening plans. Instead of a plant, I loaded my cart with a beginner’s art kit: small bottles of vivid acrylic paints, brushes, and canvases. I had no idea what I was doing or what to expect. All I knew was that something about it felt right.
When I got home and picked up a fine-tipped paintbrush for the first time, it was love at first stroke.
Abstract Beginnings: Learning to Paint Without Rules
I chose abstract painting to start because I didn’t know how to draw, and abstract art offered a freedom that piqued my curiosity and then pulled me in. I googled abstract painting techniques and abstract art for beginners. My first painting was on a cheap piece of canvas board, warped and uneven. I decided to recreate a rendition of Piet Mondrian’s famous geometric paintings—a simple yet bold way to begin.
I remember squeezing a dollop of acrylic pigment onto a palette, my hands trembling slightly as I dipped the brush into the vibrant pool of color. The first stroke was clumsy, the paint streaking unevenly across the canvas. The cheap bristles dragged against the surface, leaving uneven lines. But none of that mattered. For the first time in months, I felt a quiet spark—almost missable—of something I couldn’t quite name. Hope, maybe. Each stroke felt like a small rebellion against the chains of creative block and numbness that had held me captive. It was electrifying.
The colors clung to the canvas the way I clung to the brush, wanting this to make me happy again. Yet the act of painting itself, not the result, became my salvation. The expressive colors poured out my emotions in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Red symbolized action—the determination to climb out of the comfortable hell I had inhabited for so long. Blue reflected the quiet sadness I had carried for years, a constant companion. Yellow—bright, surprising—felt like a flicker of joy, something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in far too long.
At first, my work was messy and chaotic, layers of color clashing without rhyme or reason. But within that chaos, I found something I didn’t know I was searching for: myself.
When Paint Becomes Therapy: The Healing Power of Abstract Art
I found myself through painting, each artwork a fragment of my story. When I first began, painting was an escape—a way to let my emotions flow freely onto the canvas. Each piece became a quiet confession, a way to express feelings I couldn’t put into words. Abstract art gave me permission to be imperfect, to let the colors clash, collide, and settle as they needed to—much like my emotions. It instilled in me the confidence to take creative risks, to think outside the box, to dream again. Painting became a mirror of my emotional state, reflecting not just the darkness I carried but also glimmers of light I hadn’t noticed before. It filled me with hope, wonder, and promise.
I began dreaming of seeing my work in a New York museum—a lofty goal that made me smile and made my heart flutter every time I thought about it.
In November 2019, I took a week-long trip to New York to visit family. During the visit, we went to The Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). I remember waiting in line on a Friday night, the sharpness of the cold biting at my skin, the ink-black sky obscured by towering skyscrapers. The bustling energy of NYC surrounded me—the lights, the scents, the commotion—all of it making my heart skip a beat. I had grown used to the unhurried rhythm of southern life, where time seemed to stretch and linger like the golden hour light. Asheville, with its offbeat charm yet gentle pace, had begun to feel like home—a stark contrast to New York’s relentless noise and constant motion.
In the South, mornings began with the slow pour of coffee, the chirping of birds, and the hum of cicadas. In New York, life erupted with the roar of taxis, the chatter of strangers, and the scent of hot bagels wafting from crowded delis. Where Asheville offered calm mountain vistas and the space to breathe, New York demanded your attention with its towering skyscrapers and endless activity.
When it was finally our turn to go in, I stepped into the expansive lobby. The floors gleamed with fine marble, and the air buzzed with anticipation. A crowd of people swirled around me, all waiting for their chance to experience the beauty and wonder of MoMA.
I remember oohing and ahhing over the expertly curated collection, featuring works from a diverse group of painters spanning modern to contemporary art. At the time, I was enamored with Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning, and seeing their work in person gave me goosebumps. I even got to see Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh. The iconic painting, displayed in a beautiful black frame, was much smaller than I had imagined. A crowd of people hovered around it, phones in hand, snapping pictures as if Starry Night itself was posing for a close-up.
I went back home to Asheville, determined to continue my painting journey, ready to make my New York museum dreams come true. But art is never a straight line. Over time, what once felt like freedom began to feel like pressure. The act of creating turned into a weight I couldn’t carry. I found myself staring at freshly bought canvases, paralyzed by the fear of not being good enough and afraid of making a mistake. What turned into a typical case of creative block, quickly turned into a mountain of indecision and disappointment. What started as weeks of creative block quickly ballooned into a full year.
Creative Drought: When the Colors Stop Flowing
The colors stopped flowing as they once did. What had been a delicate dance of thoughtfully chosen hues now resembled nothing but mud and failure. The inspiration that had once been my source of joy had completely dried up, leaving me with an overwhelming sense of emptiness.
Unfinished paintings began to pile up, each one a reminder of my creative block. Despite countless failed attempts to rekindle my love for painting, the spark refused to return. Feeling lost and frustrated, I decided it was time to pivot my creative pursuits.
Desperate to feel that rush of creativity again, I turned to photography during Zoom Art School in the fall of 2020. There was something immediate and electrifying about pressing the shutter button, capturing a fleeting moment in time. Photography gave me a sense of control that painting couldn’t during those months. It felt new, exciting, and easier somehow. The quick wins pulled me in—the satisfaction of seeing an image come to life in seconds, the praise that came when people noticed my talent. Slowly, photography began to overshadow painting. I packed away my art supplies, convinced that part of my life was over.
Looking back, I realize that switching to photography wasn’t a failure—it was a detour. Sometimes, the thing you need most is to step away and explore other paths. Photography became a way for me to reconnect with creativity without the heavy emotional weight painting carried at the time. It helped me find joy in creating again, even if it wasn’t with a brush in hand.
Full Circle: The Return to Abstract Expression
In June 2022, I ventured into music photography, drawn by the energy and unpredictability of the scene. But by November 2023, I decided to step away from it. Quitting music photography left a void that felt impossible to fill. One weekend, in an attempt to reclaim a sense of purpose, I bought food for the weekend, locked myself in my apartment, and unearthed my old painting supplies.
What started as a single weekend of painting quickly transformed into two months of dedicated, focused work.
It was the way the oil paint textures seeped into the watercolor paper that brought me back to life. The layers, the unpredictability of the medium—all of it reminded me of what I had been missing. The familiar coppery scent of oil paints filled my living room, stirring something deep within me. That magic, the connection I thought I had lost, came rushing back with each stroke of the brush.
What began as one painting soon became eleven.
My love for abstract art came rushing back and, thankfully, has remained ever since. It became my therapy once again, with my passion for the craft returning in waves.
Canvas Confessions: Art as a Journey of Self-Discovery
Painting is a reflection of my resilience and a way to tell my story. Through every thoughtful choice of color, every brushstroke, and every moment when the colors glisten in the afternoon sun, I’ve learned that art is a journey—a journey into the depths of the human psyche and across the waves of one’s emotional landscape. My paintbrush has been both a tool and a mirror, revealing parts of myself I never knew existed and helping me confront emotions I had buried. Abstract art has become my sanctuary, a place where I can pour my heavy heart onto the canvas without fear or hesitation.
My journey with art has been anything but linear. There were times when I walked away, convinced I had lost the spark forever, but those detours taught me the value of rediscovery. Each return to the craft felt like reconnecting with an old friend—familiar yet fresh, comforting yet invigorating. Painting has taught me patience, resilience, and the beauty of starting over, even when the path forward feels uncertain.
As I move forward, I know my art will continue to evolve, just as I do. The canvas is always there, a constant companion, ready to catch my thoughts, my feelings, and my story. Whether my work is messy or refined, it remains a testament to my growth and the endless possibilities that come from creating. In art, I’ve found a home—and I know I’ll always return to it.
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