January 11
From the roof
What a way to bring in the new year. Last week, I woke up and pulled the curtain in my room—a daily ritual to admire the beautiful sunrise painted across the sky. Instead, I was met with the sight of smoke billowing over the mountains and spreading into the surrounding areas. As much as I don’t rely on television for news, I decided to turn it on for once. Long story short: Los Angeles was burning, with fires concentrated in select areas, particularly the Palisades and Eaton. Even as I write this, the fires are still ongoing. My heart goes out to everyone who has been affected, whether directly or indirectly. I think of you as I go about my daily life.
On another note, taking English at the college I’m attending has helped me refine my writing skills and unlocked new ways to express the thoughts constantly swirling in my head. Shoutout to Professor Elahi and her amazing syllabus! That said, there’s homework due on Monday, which I plan to tackle tomorrow.
Reflecting on the past few days, I’ve begun to think more deeply about the direction of my artistic work. I’ve decided to focus on a specific area of painting: gradients. It’s a subject that fascinates me, though it feels like there’s still much to explore and understand. Give me some time, and I’ll have some analyses ready to share with you.
Recently I watched some art documentaries by the brilliant director Michael Blackwood. He’s captured the creative processes of some of my most celebrated painters: Philip Guston, Chuck Close, James Rosenquist, Roy Lichtenstein, to name a few. I love how these artists describe their work, while Blackwood captures them in their rawest form. Many of their processes are things I already incorporate into my own work, but watching them approach art in their unique ways has given me new insights on how I can improve.
When people ask what I paint, my answer is always, “Whatever you see is what it is.” Behind that, though, is a rigorous process. I often sample and distort images, mirror them, or pick up on figures and gestures that seem to "speak" to me in the studio. My works tend to “live” for long periods, absorbing the environment and revealing their purpose over time. It’s like they understand their role in the world before I capture and contain them in the forms they’re meant to take.
I used to dismiss certain art styles—like works with a single stroke or monotonous surfaces—because they lacked a premise, even after reading the artist’s statement. But my perspective has changed for some artists. What I’m trying to say is this: Many of us know how to paint, but far fewer know how to curate. Without curation, works often remain stranded in a limbo of visual appeal. To me, the combination of curation and physical work is like a beautifully crafted menu, where each dish complements the next in terms of taste and presentation. A bad analogy, perhaps. Let’s try again: It’s like… never mind, you get the point.
Right now, I’m focused on curating my work better. I often have so much to say about certain aspects of my process, but I rarely take notes. Documenting the process is more than just taking photos—it’s about writing down the steps, describing what you’re feeling before and after, and capturing the essence of the work in words. This year, I plan to make the written part of my process a priority, and I’m already excited about it.
Be safe, Los Angeles.
