Father of Us All

June 15, 2025

Every painter, at some point, finds themselves looking back. Whether it's in front of a canvas or caught in a moment of quiet reflection, there's a pull toward those who came before—the great masters whose work still speaks across centuries. In many ways, the history of painting is a lineage, not just of style or technique, but of spirit. The past, whether we acknowledge it directly or not, is the father of us all.

From the delicate light of Vermeer to the raw emotion of Van Gogh, the bold geometry of Cézanne to the haunting intimacy of Egon Schiele, painters throughout time have passed along more than just ideas. They’ve handed down a way of seeing. They’ve shown us how to observe the world more deeply, how to translate feeling into form, how to make paint breathe.

Art doesn’t arise from a vacuum. Each generation is shaped, knowingly or not, by the discoveries of those who came before. When we pick up a brush, we’re not starting from scratch—we’re continuing a conversation. The techniques we learn, the compositions that move us, the gestures we imitate in practice all come from artists who, in their own time, were searching too. And by studying their work—really studying it, not just admiring from afar—we begin to understand not just how they painted, but why.

There’s a myth that greatness in art is a lightning strike—something mysterious and unteachable. But the truth is more generous. Greatness can be learned. It can be absorbed through patience, observation, and effort. The old masters, in all their brilliance and flaws, are proof that painting is both craft and devotion. They struggled, they experimented, they failed—and in doing so, they left behind roadmaps for those willing to follow.

To walk in their footsteps is not to replicate them, but to learn from their courage. When Caravaggio dragged drama out of shadow, or when Monet chased the changing light across his garden, they weren’t preserving tradition—they were breaking new ground. Their influence isn't a chain; it’s a torch. And it still burns.

As painters today, we are heirs to that light. Our job isn’t to reinvent the wheel, but to keep it turning in our own direction. To let the voices of the past echo into our hands, and then say something new. So we study them—not out of obligation, but out of respect. Out of love. Because without them, we wouldn’t be where we are. And without us, their work wouldn’t keep living.

In every brushstroke, a little of their fire remains.