It's not about places

Art is often an act of translation, a process of taking the unspeakable and making it visible. The connection between a viewer and a piece of art can be obvious: a painting of a dog will likely resonate with a dog lover; a photograph of a famous landmark might stir the memories of someone who has been there. This is the easy part, the predictable bond between subject and viewer, as though the canvas was a mirror reflecting back the familiar. But the true power of art lies in its ability to transcend these more obvious links and tap into something deeper, something universal. A great work of representational art captures more than just what is shown. It becomes a carrier of emotion, evoking feelings that exist beyond personal experience. The portrait, the dog, the island — they are not just themselves but gateways to something larger. They become vessels for a  connection that draws the viewer into an intimate dialogue with the artwork. The painting no longer belongs to the artist or the subject; it belongs to the moment it creates in the viewer’s mind. It raises questions without answers.

Abstract art, however, presents a different challenge. Stripped of recognizable subjects, it seems to exist in a vaccum removed from this direct emotional shortcut. For years, I fought with doubt, that abstract forms, shapes, and colors would remain forever trapped in their own isolation, disconnected from the world. I wondered who would ever care about these abstract pieces of walls I was creating, these fractured, weather-beaten surfaces that spoke of no particular place, no specific memory. There was also no obvious audience such as wall enthusiasts or wall lovers. And if there was, what would they be searching for in my work? Cracks and stains? The weary texture of something forgotten? It seemed a little absurd. Was I even a "wall lover"? And if so, was something wrong with me?

But over time, something began to shift. I started to realize that I was not creating walls at all. Or rather, I was trying to create more than walls. What I was truly after were the moments those walls represented. Moments when the city pauses, when time itself seems to slow down and stretch out, allowing you to notice the small, hidden details that make up the fabric of urban life. I wasn’t creating places; I was capturing the experience. Each crack, each faded layer of paint, each mark on the wall was not an object but a story, a fragment of a moment suspended in time.

It dawned on me that my work wasn’t about the physicality of walls, but about the emotions they evoked. The way they spoke of time and decay, of history and neglect, of a beauty in imperfection. I realized that what I was truly painting were the fleeting, imaginary moments I saw in these surfaces. Conversations half-heard at the bus stop. Passing someone playing saxophone in front of the train station. A barista juggling coffee orders and shouting names in morning rush hour. Street cleaners sweeping leaves from the pavement. Black cabs lining up in front of a traffic light.

I want my walls to became a language of their own, a way to speak of transience and permanence, of the way we imprint ourselves on the world and the way the world imprints itself on us. I began to see that it wasn’t about making something that would appeal to a pre-existing audience, but about creating a space where anyone could find their own meaning, their own moment. My paintings became a mirror for those fleeting glimpses of life that often go unnoticed: the quiet poetry of the everyday.

I finally understand that what I am creating are not places but moments, and that it’s in these moments where connection can happen. Art is about capturing the intangible, about searching for what it means to be alive. And whether it’s a dog, a building, or an abstract wall, what matters is not what you see, but what you feel.