Why Not?

Why not?
It’s the question that pushes every idea out of hiding. But for me, it always begins with an eye—both the literal ones I paint and the invisible one inside my mind.

I’ve been obsessed with eyes for as long as I can remember. They’re portals. They’re witnesses. They’re tiny universes with no language barrier. And before any eye ends up in a painting, there is always the first eye: the mind’s eye. That internal lens is where every image begins—quiet, private, and untouchable by anyone else. It sees everything long before I do.

The mind’s eye is a strange companion. It collects fragments—color flashes from a morning walk, a shadow that moves in an unusual way, the expression on someone’s face you can’t shake. It saves these moments without asking, storing them in a universe only you have access to. And when it’s ready, it plays them back. Sometimes softly, sometimes urgently. That’s when I start painting.

People often tell me my paintings look back at them. They’re right. Those eyes on canvas are not just decoration—they are emissaries from that inner universe. When you look into them, you’re meeting a piece of what I saw before the world saw it. You’re standing in the space between what is real and what is remembered. It’s an intimate exchange, almost uncomfortable in its honesty.

There’s something sacred about that.
Our inner seeing is the last truly private place we have. No one can scroll through it or comment on it. It’s where we experience things in pure form—emotion first, explanation later. And maybe that’s why I paint eyes: they are the closest visual metaphor for the mind’s eye itself. They hold secrets, truth, fear, joy, longing, rebellion—all of it at once.

So why ask “why not?”
Because that question is an invitation for the inside world to step out. It gives shape to what would otherwise stay locked in the dark. It allows the private universe—mine, yours, everyone’s—to become visible, touchable, shared.

Every time I paint a new eye, it’s a small opening into that internal world. A reminder that what we see inwardly deserves a chance to exist outwardly. A reminder that the gaze goes both ways: we look at art, but sometimes, it looks back and asks us to wake up, pay attention, or feel something we didn’t expect.

So next time your inner vision nudges you—no matter how strange, bold, or unfinished it feels—pause and ask yourself:

Why not let it be seen?