Ok. It’s over. After what feels like an eternity of sketching, scribbling, staring at blank canvases (oh, the judgmental stare of a blank canvas), mixing paints, and reworking ideas that seemed brilliant at 3 a.m. but utterly senseless by dawn, I can finally say it: the new series is done.
But let’s take a step back, because “done” is a funny word. It implies some sort of clear, definitive ending. A firm, satisfying conclusion. The truth? The artist’s version of “done” is never really that simple. It’s more like a reluctant, exhausted surrender. The series is done not because there isn’t more I could do to it, but because I had to let it be. There’s a moment when you look at your work and realize you’re just fiddling with details that only your eye can see (and even then, you’re not entirely sure if you’re fixing something or ruining it). So, yes, for all intents and purposes: it’s done.
In a few days, all the paintings will be heading to Shanghai. There, the gallery staff will begin the final leg of preparation for the to be announced Art Fair. It’s a strange feeling, seeing your work packed up, shipped off, and handled by others—like watching your kid head off to college. You’re proud, of course, but also a bit nervous. (Will they remember to call? Will they find good lighting?) I always imagine my kids (the paintings) whispering to each other as they make their journey, critiquing the bubble wrap technique or arguing about who gets the better position on the wall.
It’s been an amazing journey. (And yes, I’m using the word “journey” unironically.) From the initial challenge of adapting to a completely new format to the very last (un)delicate brushstroke, I’ve enjoyed every single step. And that’s saying something, because some of those steps were less like skipping down a sunlit path and more like trudging through a muddy field in the rain. But that’s what makes it worthwhile.
Adopting a new format forced me to break old habits, to look for a fresh language on the canvas. I couldn’t just rely on my usual tricks (which is a polite way of saying shortcuts) to solve compositional challenges. I had to push myself to find new ways of expressing familiar ideas. There were times I felt like I was learning to paint all over again, which, by the way, is incredibly exciting. There’s a rawness to it—a vulnerability that makes you second-guess everything you thought you knew. But, in that discomfort, I found something unexpectedly freeing. I discovered a new visual rhythm, a new way of “speaking” through color and form. (Of course, not without some grumbling along the way.)
Each painting in this series demanded its own voice, its own tone, even if they’re all part of a larger conversation. It’s like conducting an orchestra where every instrument is trying to play a solo. You have to coax, cajole, and sometimes wrestle them into harmony. But once they start to sing together, there’s a moment of clarity. A feeling that maybe—just maybe—you’ve captured something genuine.
And now what?
I have a slew of new projects lined up and a calendar that’s borderline intimidating. Exhibitions, events, collaborations. The usual whirlwind that pulls you along whether you’re ready or not. But, despite the excitement, I find myself hesitating at the doorstep of this transition. It’s like trying to say goodbye to an old friend you’re not quite ready to leave behind.
Letting go isn’t easy. Not for me, at least. Ending a project and starting a new one feels more like molting—a slow shedding of skin that’s left every cell of mine steeped in the essence of this last series. And no matter how much I try to “move on,” there’s always a part of me that’s still clinging to the last piece. It’s not just the visual memory of the work; it’s the emotions and thoughts that went into creating it. It’s the ghosts of midnight revelations and the residue of early morning doubts.
When you spend months—sometimes years—immersed in a project, it becomes part of your identity. I’ve often found that the process of creating a series has a way of weaving itself into my life in ways I don’t notice until much later. It colors my dreams, shifts my routines, and sometimes even changes the way I see the world outside the studio.
The thoughts, the processes, the questions (and yes, even the frustrations) linger. They haunt my creativity, hovering like familiar ghosts. I’ll catch myself absentmindedly mixing colors for a palette that doesn’t belong to my new work or doodling a motif that I thought I had left behind. It’s like the remnants of the series are still whispering in my ear, reminding me of what we’ve been through together.
But that’s part of the artist’s life, isn’t it? Saying goodbye to one canvas to embrace another. We’re constantly living in this strange in-between space—one foot in the past project, the other tentatively stepping forward into the unknown. It’s a balancing act, and I’m still figuring out how to do it without falling on my face. (Spoiler: I haven’t mastered it yet.)
Right now, I’m savoring this bittersweet moment. It’s a brief pause between breaths, a lull before diving headfirst into what comes next. A chance to reflect on what I’ve just created and gather my strength for the next round. Because, even though the series is “done,” there’s always more to come. More to explore, more to discover. And that, ultimately, is what keeps me moving forward.
So, I’m letting this series go. Wishing it well as it makes its way to Shanghai. Hoping it will resonate with those who see it, provoke questions, stir emotions, maybe even inspire a few conversations. And as for me? I’ll be here, in the studio, staring at a new blank canvas (judgmental as ever), trying to figure out what it wants to say.
It’s never really over. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.