Technique & Emotion

January 12, 2025

As an artist, there’s a dream many of us share—the dream of creating something so raw, so pure, that the lines between intention and execution blur completely. I’ve often found myself thinking: What would it be like to reach a point where nobody could tell how a painting of mine was made?

It’s a simple thought, but the implications of it are vast. It’s about more than just perfecting technique or tricking the eye. It’s about getting to a place where technique itself no longer matters, because all that remains is the emotional response the painting evokes.

Technique as a Vessel, Not a Focus

When I think of art, I often think of the invisible threads that tie the viewer to the creator. These threads are emotions, feelings, instincts that transcend the visible surface. But what happens when we become too fixated on how a work was created? When the technique overshadows the emotion, we risk turning our art into a showcase of skill rather than a conduit for feeling.

There’s something deeply profound about reaching a state where how a painting is made doesn’t matter to the viewer. This isn’t about being secretive or elusive—on the contrary, it’s about stripping away layers so that the core of the painting can speak directly. Without the viewer becoming distracted by technique, the painting becomes a mirror for their own emotions. They see themselves in the work—not the artist’s process.

Emotions in Art

Art is an emotional language, and the point of creating something that leaves no trace of its making is to let that language speak freely. Think about how we respond to certain pieces of art—we might not know the specific brushstrokes or materials used, but we feel something when we look at them. And that feeling is often more complex than any technical analysis can capture.

Take the works of abstract painters like Mark Rothko, for example. Many people have stood in front of his large, sweeping color fields, not necessarily understanding the exact method behind the painting, but experiencing profound emotion. Rothko wasn’t concerned with how the paint was applied, or how many layers it took. He wanted the colors themselves—their juxtaposition, their intensity—to elicit a raw, emotional response.

This is what I’m aiming for: I want my work to move beyond its materials and method. I want it to live in the realm of feeling, where it’s not about technique but the response that’s evoked.

Control and Freedom

Ironically, the freedom to express emotion without concern for the method takes a great deal of control. Control over your inner world, control over how you let go of preconceived notions about what a painting should look like, and the ability to stop worrying about what’s “right.” As you evolve as an artist, you learn to understand that perfection in technique is a trap—it limits the emotional depth you can explore.

When technique becomes a means to an end, rather than the end itself, you give yourself permission to experiment. You’re not trying to impress anyone with your mastery of the craft, but rather to capture something intangible—an emotion, a moment, a feeling that defies explanation.

Artist as a Channel, Not a Creator

What’s the purpose of creating a painting that can’t be immediately dissected by technique? The point is simple: I want my work to serve as a channel for emotion. I want it to be a space where something universal can emerge, where the viewer can bring their own experience, and the art responds in kind.

In a world where everything is analyzed, explained, and categorized, there is something profoundly liberating about creating work that refuses to be reduced to its parts. It resists the temptation to be understood, and in doing so, it forces the viewer to confront their own feelings, their own truths. This, I believe, is the true power of art.

Letting Go of Perfection

Of course, I’ll still experiment with technique. I’ll still strive for mastery, but not as an end goal. It’s the process that matters, and the emotional resonance that it can create. The beauty of art isn’t just in the final piece—it’s in how it can make you feel, how it can stir something inside you. It’s about making space for emotion to breathe and giving up the need for people to understand how or why you did it.

Maybe that’s the true point of art: not to be a testament to your skills, but a testament to your ability to feel.

Ultimately, the goal isn’t to obscure the process for the sake of mystery—it’s about creating an experience, one that can’t be trapped or dissected by the mechanical. It’s about reaching a level of trust in your art, where emotion leads the way, and the process becomes secondary.

In a world that’s increasingly obsessed with the hows and whys, there is something incredibly powerful about art that can’t be pinned down. When nobody can tell how a painting was made, it means the painting has transcended its material nature. It has become something pure. And in that purity, it can finally do its job—evoke something deeply human and deeply felt in those who encounter it.