Tried and True

July 11, 2025

There’s something beautiful about the quiet rhythm of routine, the familiar way your hand moves across a canvas, the exact moment the brush lifts, the pause before committing to a line. All artists have their own unique way of working, a kind of fingerprint in motion. It might be something learned through years of repetition, or something that’s always felt intuitive, like it was just waiting to be discovered. Either way, these techniques become part of a personal lexicon, a language only the artist truly speaks, and that no one else could quite replicate.

Over time, we accumulate habits, some that anchor us, some that restrict us. In the early days, everything feels like a test. New materials, unfamiliar processes, bold choices made impulsively or out of necessity. But then, little by little, a pattern emerges. Not because we stopped experimenting, but because certain methods feel truer than others. We try things on like clothes, some fit and are worn threadbare, others barely make it out of the studio. And what sticks, what we return to again and again without question, becomes part of us.

But trying new things, that’s the current that keeps the work alive. It stirs the waters, unsettles the dust. A new tool or a changed process can unlock something that was just out of reach before. We try because we must. Because staying too comfortable is a kind of artistic sleep. And when something resonates, when it pushes a boundary or opens up a surprising path, it doesn’t feel like we’re stepping away from ourselves, but closer to the core of who we are creatively. Those discoveries, the ones that pulse with excitement and possibility, slowly shape the contours of our style.

There’s no straight line in this work. The personal evolves constantly, molded by curiosity, shaped by time, refined by failure, and transformed by those rare, electric breakthroughs. What we keep is what moves us forward, tried and true not because it’s easy, but because it continues to feel right. In that way, style is never fixed. It’s a living thing. A map of everything we’ve let in, everything we’ve let go, and everything we’ve dared to try.