My Artistic DNA: The Ever-Evolving Journey of My Abstract Style
Have you ever looked back at your past self and barely recognized the person staring back? The clothes, the ideas, the dreams – sometimes it feels like a completely different universe. For me, that's often how I feel flipping through my own artistic history. There's that one early attempt at a still life, a bowl of fruit that looks more like a colorful, lumpy alien invasion – "Was that really me?" I'll think, a slight cringe forming around the edges of my smile. But then, a wave of fondness washes over me, because every awkward phase, every bold experiment, every tentative brushstroke, has led me right here. My abstract style isn't some static destination; it’s a living, breathing entity, constantly shifting and growing, much like me. This evolution, this constant becoming, is what I want to share with you today: a candid, somewhat winding journey through its development, from those early, sometimes clumsy, influences to the vibrant expressions that pour out of me today. Perhaps as you read, you'll recognize echoes of your own creative journey, finding comfort in the shared paths of artistic discovery.
The Curious Beginnings: Drawing Straight Lines (and Failing)
My artistic journey didn't start with a sudden, enlightened burst of abstraction. Oh no, it was far more… conventional, and perhaps a little misguided. I tried my hand at realism, convinced that mastery lay in perfect representation, in faithfully capturing what my eyes saw. But honestly, it felt a bit like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole – or perhaps more accurately, trying to paint a perfectly round apple when my soul yearned for explosions of color and form. The meticulous pursuit of photographic accuracy felt stifling, a cage for the burgeoning emotions and spontaneous ideas within me. My still-life attempts, particularly the one featuring a very lopsided pear that seemed to sag with existential dread, always left me feeling a bit defeated, as if I was missing the point entirely. It wasn't just a technical challenge; it was an internal conflict. My spirit simply didn't resonate with replication; it craved invention. I remember another early attempt, a portrait that ended up looking less like my sweet grandmother and more like a disgruntled garden gnome with questionable facial hair. It was then I realized, with a sigh and a laugh, that my path probably wasn't going to be found in perfect mimicry. The constraint of literal representation felt like trying to hold my breath underwater – exhausting and utterly unfulfilling. I can still vividly recall an early abstract piece from this period – a frantic attempt to channel my frustration into paint, resulting in a canvas that looked suspiciously like a startled squirrel had splattered itself into a kaleidoscope. It was a mess, but it was my mess, and the pure act of letting go was intoxicating. This early struggle for expression is a journey many artists undertake, and you can delve deeper into this transformation in my article on my evolution from representational to abstract art.
Then I stumbled upon the pioneers of abstraction, and it was like a secret door swinging open, revealing a world I hadn't dared to imagine. Artists who dared to break away, to express the unseen, the felt, the imagined. Piet Mondrian, for instance, with his stark lines and primary colors, showed me that structure didn't have to mean rigidity, and that even the simplest forms could evoke profound rhythm and a sense of balanced calm. For me, this translated into understanding that even within seemingly chaotic abstract compositions, an underlying structure or rhythm could bring a piece together. It taught me that even the wild tangles of my emotions could find order on the canvas, a sense of intentionality guiding my hand, much like the precise placement of a single red square dictates the balance of a Mondrian. It was a revelation that art could be an internal dialogue, about the composition of feelings and the rhythm of thoughts, rather than merely replicating external reality. This initial spark, while rooted in geometric purity, whispered possibilities of art beyond the literal. I also found myself drawn to the dynamic energy of Futurism and the subconscious explorations of Surrealism, even if my path later veered more into direct emotional expression; they all widened my understanding of what art could be. If you're curious about the broader strokes of this artistic revolution, you might enjoy my dive into the definitive guide to the history of abstract art.
This early struggle with representation, while frustrating, ultimately opened the door to the liberating world of abstraction. It was through the fragmented lens of Cubism that I began to truly explore this new freedom, but not before a brief, intense fascination with the raw emotionality of German Expressionism, which hinted at the power of color and gesture to convey inner states. This natural progression ultimately paved the way for exploring how later movements like Abstract Expressionism would push these boundaries even further, emphasizing gestural marks and the raw act of creation, which I would revisit.
Shifting Gears: Finding My Rhythm in Cubes and Colors
From those early, almost scientific explorations of form, sparked by Mondrian's elegant structure and the emotional hints of Expressionism, my style began to loosen up, to fragment and reassemble. It was less about strict geometries and more about dynamic interplay. I found myself drawn to the Cubists – the way they dismantled reality, seeing it from multiple angles at once, presenting a fractured, yet cohesive, truth. This wasn't about perfect lines anymore, but about how shapes interacted, how perspectives could collide and create something new and emotionally resonant. This period saw me experimenting with overlapping planes and transparent forms, much like looking through layers of stained glass to see a fragmented scene. It taught me invaluable lessons about building depth and narrative through fragmented views, a technique that still informs how I layer colors and shapes in my current work, creating a sense of history and hidden meaning beneath the surface. For a time, I primarily worked with the bold opacity of oils, reveling in their rich texture and the slow, deliberate drag of the brush as I built up these complex structures, the paint feeling heavy and sculptural.
It felt a lot like trying to piece together a complex puzzle, but without a picture on the box, which, let's be honest, is far more exciting (and occasionally infuriating, like trying to untangle a particularly stubborn knot of yarn). I remember the sheer mental gymnastics required to see an object simultaneously from the front, side, and top. Juan Gris's work often comes to mind from this period. His precision in rendering familiar objects in such a compellingly unfamiliar way, through a process often referred to as Synthetic Cubism where elements are simplified and reassembled, was incredibly inspiring. This pushed me to experiment with my own fragmented forms and nuanced, sometimes muted, color palettes, searching for that inherent order within the apparent chaos. I remember one attempt at a Cubist-inspired landscape where the trees ended up looking suspiciously like a pile of awkwardly stacked green boxes. It certainly wasn't what I intended, and I may have muttered a few choice words under my breath, but it taught me invaluable lessons about composition and embracing the unexpected revelations that arise from deconstruction. My fascination with breaking down and reassembling visuals, seeing the world not as a singular image but as a collage of moments and perspectives, remains a core element of my artistic creative process.
It was a period of playful deconstruction, of seeing how much I could twist and turn a visual idea before it completely dissolved into something unrecognizable. The aim wasn't chaos, but a new kind of order, a personal visual language that spoke of internal multiplicity. But as I meticulously arranged my painted planes, a deeper yearning began to surface – a realization that the true essence of my art lay not just in deconstruction, but in the raw, unadulterated expression of feeling. To learn more about this transformative period in art, check out the ultimate guide to abstract art movements or explore the ultimate guide to Cubism.
The Intuitive Leap: When Emotion Took the Wheel
While my Cubist explorations were intellectually fascinating, meticulously arranging fragmented planes, there came a point in my journey where that pursuit gave way to the undeniable pull of emotion. For me, this was the big leap, a visceral understanding that my abstract art wasn't just about what I saw, but about what I felt – and how I could translate that raw inner landscape onto canvas. It was about translating joy, struggle, tranquility, or sheer chaotic energy without the need for literal representation. I often felt like my brush was simply an extension of my pulse, my breathing, the rhythm of my thoughts. When I felt a surge of unexpected joy, for instance, I found myself instinctively reaching for cadmium yellow and making broad, sweeping gestures that felt like a physical release, a burst of sunshine on the canvas. Conversely, moments of serene contemplation might manifest as soft, blending gradients and gentle, sweeping forms, a visual whisper, a calm breath.
This is where artists like Wassily Kandinsky truly resonated. His belief in the spiritual in art, and his pioneering use of color and form to evoke powerful emotional responses, felt like a key unlocking a door I hadn't even known was there. His "Compositions," especially "Composition VIII" with its intricate balance of geometric forms and vibrant hues, are masterclasses in expressing the inexpressible. They showed me that abstract shapes and colors could speak directly to the soul, bypassing the need for recognizable imagery entirely, forming a visual symphony of emotion. It was a thrilling, sometimes terrifying, realization that I could simply feel my way through a painting, letting intuition be the compass, the paint a direct conduit for my inner world. The very feel of the brush gliding or scraping across the canvas became part of the message, a physical echo of my internal state. This move towards unfiltered expression also reconnected me with the energy of Abstract Expressionism, which I had touched upon earlier, realizing its true power in conveying raw emotion and the act of creation itself.
This embracing of spontaneity and intuition became a cornerstone of my style. I stopped trying to control every brushstroke and started listening to what the paint, the canvas, and my own emotions were telling me. It's an ongoing dance between intention and happy accidents, a topic I explore in the power of imperfection and the unexpected beauty of imperfection. This shift also deepened the emotional resonance of my abstract art significantly, making each piece a personal diary entry and an expression of pure, unfiltered feeling. It was a liberation, a permission slip to simply be with the paint and let it guide me. This intuitive connection laid the groundwork for the layered, vibrant expression you see in my work today, often nurtured by the rhythmic flow of my creative flow and explored further in the art of intuitive painting.
My Current Canvas: Layers, Laughter, and an Open Horizon
Today, my abstract style is a rich tapestry woven from all these influences and personal breakthroughs. You'll often find a playful interaction of vibrant, often translucent, colors – think bold primary splashes layered over earthy undertones – that build up in layers. I primarily favor fluid acrylics for these translucent glazes because their quick drying time encourages a rapid, spontaneous dialogue with the canvas, and their inherent fluidity allows for seamless blending or distinct separations depending on my mood. This flexibility helps me build complex narratives of color and light, often using multiple layers to hint at hidden depths and evolving stories, a technique I further explore in the art of glazing. Or I might employ a palette knife, not just for applying paint, but to scrape back wet layers, revealing unexpected textures and luminous depths beneath – a process that feels both destructive and incredibly creative, a physical manifestation of erasing and rediscovering. While I appreciated the rich texture of oils in my Cubist phase, I find the versatility and quicker pace of acrylics better suit my current intuitive, layered approach, allowing me to build up ideas and adapt more freely. I also occasionally incorporate mixed media elements, like charcoal lines or found paper, to add another dimension, bridging the tactile with the visual.
There's a deliberate rawness, an energy captured through expressive mark-making – a quick dash, a bold sweep, a gentle whisper of a line, or a vigorous scrape of the palette knife. Each stroke is a moment, an emotion, a thought, a fleeting echo of the internal landscape. I remember one piece where I was struggling, feeling a sense of creative friction, and almost impulsively, I picked up a large brush and smeared a thick, defiant line of deep ultramarine across a meticulously built-up surface. Initially, I gasped, a sinking feeling that I'd ruined it, but then, a new, vital energy emerged, a tension that made the piece truly sing. It was a perfect, accidental breakthrough, a testament to the unexpected beauty of imperfection that often finds its way into my exploring texture. This is where the dance between control and letting go truly comes alive. The soft rustle of paper, the grainy resistance of charcoal, the smooth glide of fluid paint – these are the subtle sensations that define my studio.
My process is still deeply intuitive, but now with a foundation of experience that allows for greater freedom and a more confident hand. I love the unexpected textures that emerge, the way colors blend and clash, creating depth and narrative without explicit imagery. It's a joyful exploration, a continuous conversation between me and the canvas, often fueled by a healthy dose of self-deprecating humor when things go delightfully (or disastrously) off-script. The subtle rhythms and vastness of the Dutch landscape also subtly filter into my work; the expansive, often cloudy skies translate into cool blues and soft grays, the precise lines of the polders into unexpected geometric divisions, and the vibrant tulip fields and changing light over the fields into unexpected pops of vibrant greens, yellows, and reds in my palette. This influence creates a sense of infinite horizons and grounded structure within my compositions, echoing the very land I call home. For me, abstract art is not random; it's a deliberate invitation to the viewer. Every mark, every layer, every color choice carries intention and emotional weight, offering a starting point for your own interpretation, a mirror for your feelings and experiences. It's about opening a dialogue, not providing a literal answer. If you're curious about how I approach starting a piece, take a look at my intuitive approach to starting an abstract painting.
Here’s a snapshot of the journey and its echoes in my current style:
Influence  | Manifestation in Current Style |
|---|---|
| Mondrian | Underlying structure, balanced compositions |
| Cubism | Fragmented forms, layered perspectives, depth through planes |
| Kandinsky/Intuition | Emotional expression, spontaneous gestures, color as language |
| Dutch Landscape | Palette (cool blues, grays, vibrant greens/yellows), sense of horizon, subtle geometric divisions |
| Abstract Expressionism | Raw emotionality, gestural marks, dynamic energy |
My style is always evolving because, well, I'm always evolving. Life throws new experiences, new feelings, new obsessions my way, and my art is the vessel through which I process them. It’s an ongoing adventure, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. If you’d like to see where this journey has taken me recently, you can always explore my art for sale and perhaps even find a piece that resonates with your own journey.
Frequently Asked Questions About My Style's Evolution
Q: What's the biggest challenge in evolving your style?
A: Honestly? Letting go. It's easy to get comfortable with what works, to stick to a 'signature' that feels safe. The real challenge is daring to venture into the unknown, to embrace the awkwardness of new experiments, and to allow your style to change even when you're not entirely sure where it's headed. It takes courage, and sometimes a good pep talk from myself, usually involving chocolate and a deep breath, to push past that fear of the unknown. It's like shedding an old skin, uncomfortable but essential for growth – and let's be real, who enjoys shedding skin? But the reward is always worth the temporary discomfort.
Q: How do you stay inspired to keep your style fresh?
A: Inspiration isn't always a lightning bolt; sometimes it's just showing up. I cultivate my daily rituals and constantly seek new perspectives. This might involve exploring contemporary art galleries, delving into art history books, taking long walks through different natural landscapes, or even just having a really good, stimulating conversation with a fellow artist about color theory or compositional challenges. Recently, I've been experimenting with adding oil pastels over dried acrylics for a more buttery, textural line, or playing with dramatically different sized canvases to force new compositional challenges. Even just shifting my studio setup, like rearranging my easels or my color palette, can spark something new. I've also learned to embrace creative blocks not as failures, but as periods of incubation, a quiet time for new ideas to brew. It's about staying curious, even when you feel a bit creatively sluggish (which happens to everyone!). Sometimes, it's about stepping away for a moment and then seeing familiar things with fresh eyes, or asking myself "why" a particular color or shape draws me in.
Q: Can I see your earlier work or learn more about your journey?
A: Absolutely! You can get a sense of my artistic path by visiting my timeline, which traces key moments and developments. For a truly immersive experience, I'd be delighted if you could visit my museum in 's-Hertogenbosch, where you can see many pieces in person and witness the evolution firsthand.
The Journey Continues
Reflecting on the evolution of my abstract style has been a wonderful, slightly nostalgic exercise. It reminds me that art, like life, is a continuous process of becoming. There's no final destination, just an endless series of beginnings, each building on the last. It's a journey filled with experimentation, introspection, and the occasional happy accident that teaches you more than any planned lesson ever could. And perhaps that's the greatest joy – the constant discovery of new possibilities, both on the canvas and within myself.
Thank you for taking this personal dive with me. I hope it inspires you to look at your own journey, artistic or otherwise, with a fresh perspective, embracing every twist and turn. What creative journeys have shaped your own unique path, and perhaps, like me, have you found liberation in embracing the abstract? And who knows, maybe you'll find a piece of my journey that echoes your own when you explore my collection. Because in the end, art is all about connection, isn't it?