The Dance of Intuition and Intent: My Process in Creating Abstract Layers

You know, sometimes I feel like my entire creative process is just one long, elaborate negotiation. It’s a bit like trying to decide what to have for dinner with a particularly stubborn friend: my intuition is screaming "pizza!", while my deliberate intent is quietly but firmly suggesting "a balanced meal with vegetables, because we have goals, dear." Most days, it’s a beautiful, chaotic dance. Other days? Well, other days it’s more of a clumsy tango, where one of us keeps stepping on the other’s toes. But that messy, glorious interplay is precisely where my abstract layers come alive. This push-and-pull isn't unique to painting; you see it in every creative field, from a novelist's first chaotic draft refined by deliberate editing, to a musician's spontaneous riff polished into a structured composition. It's the universal heartbeat of creation. In my world of abstract layers, this push-and-pull isn't just a concept; it's the very engine that brings my pieces to life, inviting you into a dialogue with your own creative spirit. Do you recognize this dance in your own creative pursuits, or even in daily decision-making?

The Intuitive Overture: When the Canvas Whispers (or Shouts)

Every piece begins with a whisper, or sometimes, a rather insistent shout, from that unruly part of my brain we call intuition. There’s no grand blueprint, no pre-drawn sketch – just an urge, a feeling, a vague sense of color or movement. It’s like standing at the edge of a diving board, knowing you’re about to jump but having no clue what the water will feel like. Sometimes it's a quiet meditation, just breathing and waiting, other times it's just a sudden, almost physical urge, often accompanied by my favorite (loud) music. It's about clearing the mental runway and letting the inner pilot take over. This is where the magic (and sometimes the mayhem) truly begins.

I grab a brush, or often, just my hands, and let the first strokes flow. It’s a raw, unfiltered conversation with the canvas. This phase is all about embracing spontaneity, about getting out of my own head and just feeling the paint, the surface, the immediate impulse. The fast-drying nature of acrylics, my preferred medium, often lends itself perfectly to this rapid, uninhibited expression, allowing me to build up initial textures and colors quickly. It's the very essence of the art of intuitive painting, a freeing experience where mistakes don’t exist, only opportunities for new directions.

I remember once starting a piece with just a furious splash of red, no thought, just pure, unadulterated emotion from a frustrating day. It looked like a crime scene, frankly, but that initial, wild energy became the hidden heartbeat of the final artwork. Think of the raw, unbridled energy in a Jean-Michel Basquiat piece, where initial, bold marks often become the foundation for complex narratives. It’s a bit like life, isn't it? Our raw, initial reactions often lay the groundwork for everything that follows. To truly unleash your inner pilot, try a 'blind' drawing exercise, a timed session of pure mark-making without judgment, or simply try painting with your non-dominant hand for a few minutes. You could even make a series of rapid, abstract marks to music without any conscious thought, just letting the rhythm guide your hand. Just feel the gritty, cool paint beneath your fingers and let it lead.

https://heute-at-prod-images.imgix.net/2021/07/23/25b32e7b-0659-4b35-adfe-8895b41a5f89.jpeg?auto=format, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

The Intentional Interlude: Building the Narrative, Layer by Layer

Once the initial intuitive flurry settles, my 'intent' steps in, usually with a polite cough and a raised eyebrow. "Alright," it seems to say, "that was fun. Now, what are we actually trying to say here?" This is where the deliberate, often painstaking process of layering begins. Think of it less like stacking pancakes and more like building an ancient city – each new layer adds history, texture, and a deeper narrative, sometimes burying secrets, sometimes revealing glimpses of what came before.

This phase is all about structure, depth, and refinement. It’s where I consider the language of layers, thinking about transparency, opacity, and how colors will interact beneath and on top of each other.

For instance, after an initial burst of chaotic reds, my intent might guide me to apply a thin, cool blue glaze over a specific area. This isn't to hide the red, but to shift its emotional temperature and create a sense of receding depth, allowing the underlying intuitive marks to still peek through and add history. This transformation can turn a raw outburst of red into a smoldering ember, adding a layer of contemplative depth, perhaps to evoke a feeling of quiet contemplation amidst the initial chaos, or to create a focal point that draws the eye inward. The thoughtful application of layers allows me to control the narrative, to deepen the mystery, or to amplify a specific emotion.

I might apply thin glazes to shift the emotional temperature, or thick impasto to create palpable texture. These deliberate choices might involve the satisfying drag of a palette knife for ridges that catch the light, the smooth flow of glazing liquid for translucent layers that reveal hidden stories, or even texture paste for a more sculptural feel that begs to be touched. Learning how to layer colors in acrylic painting effectively is a skill that comes with practice, and sometimes, a lot of scrapped canvases – a bit like refining a complex recipe until it hits just the right notes of flavor and texture. This meticulous process builds the multi-layered depth you see in a Gerhard Richter abstract painting.

I find myself consciously thinking about the role of texture in abstract art during this stage. Do I want to evoke the rough bark of a tree, or the smooth, cool surface of glass? These choices aren't accidental; they're made with a purpose, to draw the viewer deeper into the artwork's physical and emotional landscape. It's a bit like writing a novel – the first draft is pure intuition, but the subsequent edits and rewrites are all about intent, refining the story, deepening the characters, ensuring every word serves a purpose.

https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53064827119_1b7c27cd96_b.jpg, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/

The Dynamic Duet: Striking a Balance

Here's the trick, the grand secret (or maybe just my slightly obsessive neurosis): the two aren't separate acts. They're constantly informing each other. An intuitive splash might spark a deliberate decision to enhance a certain hue. A carefully planned layer might suddenly reveal an unexpected shape, prompting an intuitive response to highlight it. It's a continuous feedback loop, a conversation between instinct and intellect. Sometimes, I swear my intuition and intent are having a full-blown domestic dispute on the canvas, and I'm just the bewildered referee, trying to keep the peace.

I might start with an intuitive, sweeping splash of vibrant yellow and angry reds, a raw emotional dump onto the canvas. Then, my intentional side steps in, suggesting a cool blue glaze over certain areas to create depth and calm the intensity. But then, my intuition might scream for a sharp, contrasting black line to slice through that newfound serenity, breaking the calm and reintroducing tension, leading to yet another layer of deliberate refinement. Sometimes, I swear my canvas is just silently judging me as I try to mediate the two, waiting for me to make up my mind.

This constant back-and-forth, creating tension and harmony like the striking compositions of Christopher Wool, is crucial for developing your unique artistic style. This isn't a new concept; artists and thinkers throughout history have grappled with the interplay of instinct and intellect in creation, and my practice is a contemporary echo of that timeless pursuit. It’s not about choosing one over the other, but about allowing them to dance together. My "voice" as an artist, which has evolved considerably since finding my voice: the evolution of my abstract artistic style, truly emerges from this dynamic interplay. It’s the messy middle ground where true originality lies.

To make this interplay even clearer, here's a quick breakdown of how I often perceive their distinct, yet intertwined, roles:

Aspect	Intuition	Intent
Nature	Spontaneous, primal	Deliberate, analytical
Role	Generates, reacts	Refines, structures
Feeling	Raw, emotional	Thoughtful, composed
Outcome	Discovery, expression	Clarity, cohesion

Sometimes, I'll be meticulously working on a detail, and my intuition will just scream, "STOP! Leave it alone, it's perfect in its imperfection!" And sometimes, I'll be in a free-flowing intuitive state, and my intent will quietly whisper, "Maybe add a bit more blue here, to deepen the mystery." Learning to listen to both, without judgment, is an ongoing lesson in self-trust. It's exhilarating and, frankly, a little exhausting. Like hosting a dinner party where you're both the chef and the most boisterous guest. If this dance sounds intriguing, you can explore my current collection to see these principles in action.

https://live.staticflickr.com/6195/6087778411_164f0d9a2f_b.jpg, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/

Cultivating Your Own Creative Dance

So, how do you begin to cultivate this powerful dance in your own creative life? If you're an artist, or simply someone looking to infuse more creativity into your life, cultivating this balance between intuition and intent is a profound journey. My advice? Start with letting go. Embrace the chaos, the spontaneous mark-making, the urge to just play without a plan. Allow your intuition to splatter, scribble, and surprise you. Don't judge it; just observe what emerges. I once started a piece by simply blindfolding myself and scribbling for five minutes to a jazz track; what emerged was a chaotic tangle that, surprisingly, became the vibrant, underlying energy of a finished artwork. The smell of fresh paint and the sound of the brush against the canvas become my anchor as I surrender to the initial creative burst. Think of the boundless freedom in many abstract expressionist works, where raw emotion dictates the form.

Then, step back. Let your intent quietly assess: What stories are forming? What emotions are speaking? After your intuitive burst, try stepping back and asking: 'What's the dominant emotion here?', 'How can I create more depth or contrast?', 'What story is trying to emerge?', or 'Which elements need to be emphasized or recede?' Sometimes, when I feel completely stuck, I'll put the piece away for a few days, even weeks. Stepping away provides the mental space needed for my intent to calmly process and for new intuitive urges to bubble up. How can you enhance, deepen, or refine what your intuition has laid bare? It's a constant dialogue, a push-and-pull. The magic isn't in perfecting one over the other, but in finding the rhythm where they complement and challenge each other, leading you to your unique creative voice. Experiment, be patient, and trust the process. Next time you create, try consciously identifying which voice is speaking – intuition or intent – and see how they interact. You might be surprised by what you discover.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/abstract-art-fons/30634352376, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

The Emotional Resonance: Why This Process Matters to Me (and You)

Ultimately, this dance between intuition and intent isn't just a technical exercise; it's a deeply personal, almost meditative journey. Each layer I add, each spontaneous mark, each considered stroke, carries a piece of my own experience, my emotions, my reflections. This is why the emotional language of color in abstract art is so vital to my work. I'm not just painting shapes; I'm externalizing internal landscapes, turning a feeling of quiet joy into a vibrant burst of yellow on the canvas, or a profound sadness into layers of deep blues and grays.

And this is where you come in. When you stand before one of my pieces, I hope you don't just see paint on canvas. I hope you sense the journey, the layers of emotion and thought, the dialogue between the raw and the refined. This mirrors your own internal process: your intuition first reacts to the colors and forms, perhaps evoking a forgotten memory or a specific feeling. Then, your intent steps in, trying to interpret, to find narrative, to understand why you feel what you feel. This dynamic interaction between your intuitive response and your intentional analysis is precisely what makes viewing abstract art so deeply personal and engaging. I remember one collector telling me a piece felt like 'a quiet storm,' which perfectly captured the tension I'd intuitively laid down and then intentionally refined – a truly validating moment.

Abstract art, for me, is often a mirror. I believe that finding your reflection: how abstract art can be a mirror to your inner world is one of its most powerful gifts. My process, with its blend of intuitive freedom and thoughtful construction, is designed to invite you into that space of personal connection and interpretation. It's a wonderful feeling when someone connects with a piece, not because they "understand" it literally, but because it resonates emotionally. Perhaps they see a struggle, a triumph, a quiet moment of peace, or a vibrant burst of joy – all without me explicitly telling them what to see. That's the power of this process. It creates a space for mutual discovery. If you're curious to see some of these emotional landscapes, feel free to explore my current collection.

FAQ: Unraveling the Layers of Process

Q: How do you know when a layer is "finished"?

A: Ah, the million-dollar question! Honestly, it's less about "finished" and more about "resting." A layer is "finished" when I feel it has contributed what it needs to the overall composition, or when adding more would detract from it. Sometimes, it’s a deliberate decision; other times, my intuition simply says, "Step away from the canvas!" It's a continuous unfolding, and sometimes, a piece might sit for weeks before I know what its next layer needs to be.

Q: Do you ever completely discard a piece?

A: Yes, absolutely! Sometimes, the dance goes off-beat, the negotiation breaks down, and what emerges is just... well, not quite right. These aren't failures, though. They're invaluable lessons. I once tried to 'fix' a piece so much after a 'failed' intuitive phase that it ended up looking like a muddy swamp, a sort of artistic crime scene where the only victim was my ego. It was a clear lesson that sometimes, less really is more, and knowing when to stop digging is an art in itself! Every "failed" piece teaches me something new about color, texture, or the delicate balance between intuition and intent. They're like those awkward dating experiences that teach you what you really want in a partner – crucial for growth!

Q: What if intuition and intent clash dramatically?

A: Oh, they do! Often! My intuition might want bold, chaotic strokes, while my intent is screaming for quiet, minimalist lines. When this happens, I usually try to listen to both. Can I make the bold strokes also feel quiet? Can I create minimalist lines that still have an underlying chaotic energy? It’s about finding a third way, a synthesis. Sometimes, it means taking a break, clearing my head, and revisiting the piece with fresh eyes. Other times, it means embracing the conflict and letting the tension become part of the artwork's story. It's a bit like a good argument with a loved one – challenging, but ultimately leads to a deeper understanding.

Q: What if I feel completely stuck between intuition and intent?

A: Oh, this happens! When the dance falters, and I feel completely disconnected, I often try a 'forced dialogue' exercise. I'll take a small canvas and deliberately try to create a piece that only uses intuition – just spontaneous marks, no judgment. Then, on another small canvas, I'll try to create something with only intent – a rigid plan, precise lines, no deviation. Seeing these two extremes often helps me understand what each voice is trying to say, and then I can find a bridge back to their harmonious interaction on the main piece. Sometimes, it’s about giving each voice its solo moment before asking them to sing together again. It's a bit like couples therapy for my artistic selves.

Q: How do you decide on your initial color palette when starting intuitively, or do you just grab what calls to you?

A: That's a fantastic question, and it's a bit of both! Often, my intuition will simply guide my hand to a color that feels right in that moment – a vibrant yellow because I'm feeling optimistic, or a somber blue for introspection. There's no pre-planned palette at the absolute start. However, once the initial intuitive marks are down, my intent kicks in. I then consciously observe the existing colors and decide which ones would best complement or contrast with them to build the narrative. So, it begins with an impulse, and then becomes a thoughtful conversation with the canvas and the emerging colors. Sometimes, I'll even close my eyes and just pick a tube, letting pure chance lead the way for that very first splash!

Q: How do you find inspiration when the canvas feels blank?

A: Ah, the blank canvas stare! It happens to all of us. For me, it's about not forcing it. Sometimes, inspiration whispers when I'm least expecting it – walking in nature, listening to a particular piece of music, or even just observing patterns in everyday life. Other times, I'll revisit old sketchbooks, browse art books, or simply start with a single color that calls to me, letting it guide the initial intuitive mark. It's less about 'finding' inspiration and more about creating the space for it to emerge, allowing the first stroke to lead to the next, like a conversation unfolding on its own terms.

My Artistic Journey: A Continuous Unfolding

These questions are part of my daily artistic reality, and they lead me to reflect on my broader journey. This process, this constant negotiation between the wild heart and the thoughtful mind, is at the core of my identity as an artist. It’s a reflection of my own journey, my timeline of growth and discovery. From those first hesitant brushstrokes to the pieces hanging in collections, each one is a testament to this dynamic interplay. If you're ever in the Netherlands, I invite you to see some of these explorations up close at my studio/museum in 's-Hertogenbosch, where you can witness the layers of my artistic evolution firsthand.

The creation of abstract layers isn't just about paint and canvas; it's about life itself. It’s about embracing the unknown, making deliberate choices, learning from missteps, and trusting that something beautiful and meaningful will emerge from the chaos. It's my dance, my truth, and the endless unfolding of who I am, brushstroke by brushstroke, layer by layer – a journey I wholeheartedly invite you to explore in your own creative life.