#27: When People See What I Didn’t See

One of the strangest and most wonderful things about sharing art is hearing what other people see in it. I can spend hours — days — working on a painting, completely immersed in its textures, its problems, its story as I understand it. And then someone else comes along, tilts their head, and says something that stops me in my tracks.

“I love how that shadow feels like it’s reaching for something.”

“This colour makes me think of a memory I’d forgotten.”
“Is this about grief?”
“It feels like hope.”

And just like that, the painting shifts. It becomes something else — something more.

The Artist’s Tunnel Vision

When I’m in the middle of making something, I get tunnel vision. I’m thinking about composition, colour balance, whether the lines are holding together. I’m second-guessing, reworking, listening closely to what the painting seems to want. Sometimes I’m so deep in it, I can’t see anything but the problems.

So when someone tells me what they see — often something emotional, intuitive, completely unplanned — I’m always a little stunned. Not because they’re wrong, but because they’re right in a way I hadn’t imagined.

Art Is a Mirror, Not a Megaphone

I used to think I needed to be clear about what my work was about. But I’ve come to realise that art isn’t a message — it’s a mirror. People bring their own thoughts, moods, and memories to it. And that’s where the real magic happens.

The paintings I make are personal, yes. But once they leave the studio, they don’t belong just to me anymore. They start gathering meaning from the people who look at them, who connect with them in ways I couldn’t have scripted if I tried.

The Unspoken Conversations

Some of my favourite moments at exhibitions are the quiet ones — when someone stands in front of a piece, doesn’t say anything for a while, and then just… nods. Or when they ask a question I hadn’t thought to ask myself. That’s when I realise the painting has started a conversation. Not a loud one, but an honest one. And I get to be surprised by it too.

It reminds me that while I may be the one holding the brush, I’m not in control of everything a painting becomes. And that’s a good thing.

Letting the Work Be Bigger Than Me

There’s a certain humility in admitting that I don’t always know what I’ve made. That I can be so focused on the technical side or the narrative I think I’m telling, that I miss what’s really resonating beneath the surface. Sometimes the truth of the painting is something only a stranger can name.

And I love that. I love that the work gets to grow beyond me. That it can offer something I didn’t consciously put there — something that still somehow came from me, through me, even if I didn’t see it at the time.

Staying Open to Discovery

Every time someone tells me what they see, I learn more about the work. But I also learn more about myself — about the parts of me that show up without permission, the emotions I thought I’d hidden in layers of paint. It’s both unsettling and comforting. Like being understood by accident.

So I try to stay open. To keep making work that’s honest, and then letting go of what it “means.” Because the meaning will change, and that’s what keeps it alive.

In the end, I think that’s part of the beauty of painting — it’s not about controlling the story. It’s about starting one, and letting others find their own way through it.

.M.

Be real.

Make art.

If you’d like to learn more about my creative process or see my latest work, feel free to reach out or check out the rest of my website.