The Unseen Canvas: Where Dreams and the Subconscious Become Abstract Art
I woke with the distinct, unsettling feeling of a forgotten language swirling behind my eyes. It wasn't a language of words, not in the way we usually understand them, but a primal lexicon of pure sensation: a feeling of indigo swirling with a restless ochre, an intense vibration that hummed with a rhythm all its own, clinging to me like morning mist. You know that potent residue of a dream, that kaleidoscope of images and emotions still swirling in your mind, just out of reach? Or perhaps it's that nagging thought, that flicker of an idea that pops into your head when you're least expecting it – stirring your coffee, or stuck in traffic. For me, that 'unseen world' – the realm of dreams, intuition, and the vast, often quirky landscape of the subconscious – isn't just a fleeting experience; it's the very bedrock of my abstract art. So, how does one translate these ephemeral whispers into tangible form, a solid statement on canvas? That's the question that drives my work, and the journey I'm excited to share with you, an exploration of how the unseen fuels my abstract art.
Sometimes, I'll finish a piece, step back, and only then truly understand what it's about. It's as if my hands acted with a pre-verbal intuition, my conscious mind scrambling to understand what on earth I just did. It's a beautiful, sometimes baffling, dialogue with myself, and one I invite you to explore with me. This isn't just about my art; it's an invitation into the very wellspring of its creation, an intimate look at how the whispers from within become the art you see.
This raw, unfiltered chat with my inner self is precisely where every brushstroke truly begins. This article is my exploration of how the unseen world of dreams and the subconscious fuels my abstract art, and how you might find inspiration in your own inner landscape, unlocking your own 'forgotten language'.
The Whispers Before the Brushstroke: My Unseen Studio
My creative process rarely starts with a grand, fully formed concept. Instead, it's more like tuning into whispers, an act of deep listening to an inner current that often feels like static on a radio, just waiting for clarity. A fragment of a dream, a particular emotional resonance from my day, or even just a compelling combination of colors that keeps surfacing in my thoughts – these are the signals. They aren't always clear mandates; sometimes, it's just a persistent itch, a feeling that 'something wants to be made.' This intuitive pull is crucial. It bypasses the rational, critical part of my brain that loves to overthink things and goes straight for the gut. For me, this 'listening' isn't a mystical ritual; it's about cultivating a heightened state of awareness, a kind of gentle vigilance.
Often, it involves quiet contemplation, a waking meditation where I observe my internal landscape, letting thoughts and sensations drift by like clouds, noting which ones linger. Think of it as a mental 'doodle pad' for your inner world: I might spend twenty minutes focused on my breath, then slowly shift my attention to the 'background hum' of my mind – what colors are implicitly present? What emotional texture? Sometimes, it's an exercise in free association, letting one thought or feeling playfully bounce to the next, sketching rapid visual notes in a small pad, not caring if they make sense. And sometimes, the feeling dictates the medium: a dream of sharp edges might demand charcoal, while a fluid sensation might call for watery inks. I distinctly remember a recurring sound from a series of childhood nightmares – a low, guttural thrumming that always preceded a feeling of being utterly lost. It wasn't something I consciously chose to paint, but after days of that hum echoing in my waking thoughts, I found myself instinctively reaching for thick, impasto reds and blacks, applying them with heavy, scraping motions, creating a dense, almost suffocating texture that mimicked that very sound, not its visual source. Sometimes, the soft, diffused light of my studio feels like it's inviting introspection, or a certain playlist can unlock a specific emotional palette, guiding these initial whispers onto the canvas.
This intuitive pull means embracing spontaneity in abstract creation, letting the initial impulse guide the first strokes rather than adhering to a rigid plan. There’s a beautiful vulnerability in that, don't you think? It’s like tuning into a radio station that only I can hear, trying to catch the faint signal of what wants to emerge. Every brushstroke is a step into the unknown, guided by an invisible hand. While my approach echoes the automatism sought by the Surrealists – tapping into the subconscious to bypass rational thought – my method leans specifically into abstraction, translating raw impulse into form and color rather than direct, narrative imagery. It's less about a dream scene and more about the dream's essence. My creative flow is all about this delicate balance. But how do we actually paint these whispers? That's the puzzle we'll dive into next.
Decoding the Dreamscape: Translating the Ineffable
So, how do you paint a feeling? How do you capture the fleeting logic of a dream, or the subtle weight of an unspoken anxiety, without resorting to literal imagery? This is where abstract art becomes less about depicting what is and more about revealing what feels. It's a challenging, often delightful, puzzle, and sometimes frustrating when that brilliant dream logic evaporates upon waking, leaving only a faint echo of its emotional truth. It's like trying to catch smoke with a sieve – fascinating, but ultimately elusive. This raw translation often comes with a dose of self-doubt; a tiny voice asking, 'Am I getting this right? Or am I just making a mess?' Yet, pushing past that is part of the journey.
Translating these ephemeral whispers into tangible form is the core of my practice, a puzzle I approach with a specific methodology.
From Sensation to Stroke: My Translation Process
I often keep a small sketchbook by my bed. Not to meticulously draw my dreams (who remembers them in enough detail for that?), but to jot down keywords, colors, or the dominant emotions I felt. It’s like gathering clues from a detective novel where I'm both the detective and the perpetrator. If I dream of a vast, empty ocean, for example, it might evoke a specific kind of expansive solitude – perhaps a quiet melancholy, or a profound sense of peaceful, untethered freedom. To capture that vastness, I load a wide, soft brush with a watery mix of cerulean and a hint of Payne's gray, letting it flow freely across the canvas, sometimes even tilting the surface to allow gravity to guide the initial 'tide.' Then, perhaps a drier brush, dragged lightly over the still-damp paint, creates a subtle textural ripple, mimicking the surface tension of water, while a thin, precise line of almost black ink, applied with a fine rigger brush, cuts across the expanse, a jarring, unresolved thought amidst calm. It’s less about a literal ship and more about the feeling of being adrift and untethered. Here, the cerulean and gray become the vocabulary for vastness and melancholy, while the precise black line acts as syntax, introducing conflict. The way color speaks in abstract art becomes my primary vocabulary, and the lines and shapes are the syntax, creating a visual poem of the unseen. Another time, I woke from a dream steeped in a profound sense of vibrant, chaotic joy – not a gentle happiness, but the kind that bursts forth unexpectedly, almost overwhelming in its intensity. How to paint that? For me, it became a furious layering of almost pure, radiant yellow and fuchsia, applied with short, sharp jabs and then quickly dragged, allowing the colors to almost dance and spar across the canvas. Small, unexpected drips of iridescent orange, left unfixed, conveyed the ephemeral, uncontrollable nature of that sudden delight, a feeling that refuses to be contained. These distinct strategies ensure that every translation, whether from quiet contemplation or explosive emotion, finds its own unique visual voice.
The Mundane and the Profound: All Feelings Welcome
Sometimes my dreams are just about forgetting where I parked the car, or an awkward conversation with a distant relative – my subconscious isn't always profound; sometimes it's just concerned with grocery lists, much to my chagrin. My subconscious, bless its heart, isn't always aiming for the Louvre; sometimes it's just worried about whether I remembered to buy milk, or if I accidentally left the gas on. But even that mundane anxiety can find its way into a chaotic line. For the grocery list anxiety – that feeling of frantic mental juggling – it doesn't look like a shopping cart, thankfully. Instead, I might find myself making a series of short, quick, almost scratching marks with the side of a charcoal stick, overlapping and intertwining, like a tangled ball of yarn. Or blending uncertain browns with a restless olive green, never letting the colors fully settle, creating a 'muddy, restless hue' that reflects the unsettled mind, the visual equivalent of a hum of low-level stress. Even the most seemingly trivial anxieties, I've learned, carry a unique visual signature within.
This personal exploration of the subconscious isn't just my own quirky habit; it's something artists and thinkers have been wrestling with for ages, across cultures and throughout history. The way different cultures interpret dreams and integrate them into their art also fascinates me, highlighting the universal nature of this inner wellspring.
Historical Echoes & Psychological Underpinnings: Inner Necessity in Art
Indeed, the connection between dreams, intuition, and art has fascinated humanity for millennia. While my process often feels profoundly personal, it's a journey echoed by artists throughout history. From ancient shamans interpreting visions in rock art to Indigenous Australian artists whose "Dreamings" are profound spiritual narratives, the unseen world has always been a wellspring. Movements like Symbolism, with artists like Gustave Moreau and Odilon Redon, were also deeply interested in subjective experience, mysticism, and evoking inner worlds rather than depicting external reality, serving as an important precursor to later explorations of the subconscious. More recently, we see the automatism of the Surrealists, who deliberately tapped into the subconscious to bypass rational thought, a technique that also influenced Beat Generation writers and even some performance artists seeking raw, unfiltered expression. Pioneers like Wassily Kandinsky and the raw emotionality of early Abstract Expressionists similarly sought to express inner states.
Kandinsky, a true visionary credited with painting one of the first purely abstract works, spoke passionately about art's ability to express 'inner necessity' – the spiritual and emotional truths residing within. He believed art should be driven by this deep internal urge, not merely by external appearances or aesthetic decoration. When I look at his vibrant blues in 'Composition VII' or the stark lines of 'Circles in a Circle,' I don't just see shapes; I feel the emotional resonance he intended, a direct line from his soul to mine, mirroring those internal states I strive to capture. Kandinsky believed every mark was a clue, a step towards uncovering a whispered secret. I find an immediate kinship with artists who, like Kandinsky, prioritized the emotional and spiritual over mere representation, understanding that the true subject lies beneath the surface. Similarly, movements like Tachisme and Art Informel in post-war Europe, with their explosive emphasis on spontaneous gestures and raw material exploration, feel like kindred spirits. They embraced the raw, unfiltered output of the mind, allowing paint to become a direct conduit for feeling – a momentary explosion of emotion on the canvas, much like the unexpected bursts of color or frantic lines that emerge when my subconscious takes over.
Beyond the brushstrokes of history, psychology offers fascinating frameworks for understanding this connection. Figures like Carl Jung, with his profound theories of the collective unconscious and universal archetypes, or even earlier, Freud's pioneering dream analysis, highlight the profound symbolic language inherent in our minds. While my process isn't clinical – I'm an artist, not a therapist, thank goodness! – I intuitively grasp that dreams are often a rich tapestry of symbols and sensations, not literal narratives. My art, therefore, seeks to translate these universal, yet deeply personal, subconscious symbols into a visual dialogue, inviting both recognition and individual interpretation. Do you ever wonder what your own everyday musings might mean on a canvas? This dialogue between art, history, and the human psyche is endlessly compelling.
The Subconscious as Co-Creator: Embracing the Unknown
Once these dream fragments or subconscious nudges have settled, the real conversation begins as I face the canvas. My conscious mind proposes, but my subconscious often disposes, or at least redirects. It's a dance between intention and intuition, a push-and-pull that defines my studio practice. I've learned to trust those moments when my hand takes an unexpected turn, or when a color combination I hadn't planned suddenly feels right. I distinctly recall one piece where I was attempting to evoke a sense of serene morning light, planning for soft, expansive sky blues and gentle whites. My brush was loaded, poised to spread that calm. But in that crucial second, my hand, almost against my conscious will, swerved, plunging into a pot of vibrant crimson, a color I hadn't even considered. My conscious mind screamed "NO!" but my hand, possessed by some inner force, plunged into the crimson. The canvas erupted, transforming from tranquil to intensely passionate, revealing an almost angry undercurrent, a hidden frustration or perhaps a long-suppressed burst of energy that my logical mind had tried to keep quiet. It was both startling and exhilarating, a direct, unfiltered message from deep within, and it completely redefined the artwork. This is where the magic of embracing happy accidents truly shines, even when it feels like my own mind is playing tricks on me.
Navigating Conflicting Impulses
It's not always easy, though; sometimes the subconscious whispers are so faint, or so contradictory, that the canvas feels like a battlefield of conflicting impulses, a frustrating struggle to give form to the ephemeral. I remember once starting a piece with the intention of using only fluid, translucent watercolors to evoke a feeling of fleeting memory. I envisioned soft, blurred edges. But as I began, my hand felt an inexplicable urge to pick up a thick, oil-based crayon and scrawl a harsh, almost violent line across the delicate wash. My conscious mind protested, 'No, that will ruin it!' but the impulse was undeniable. I obeyed. That single, stark, waxy line, cutting through the ethereal washes, completely transformed the piece. It wasn't about memory anymore; it was about the sudden, jarring intrusion of an unbidden, uncomfortable truth, a raw interruption to a delicate past. It wasn't what I thought I wanted, but it was profoundly what the piece needed to say. I've learned that pushing through these moments of internal chaos is key. Sometimes, it means laying down a layer of paint that feels 'wrong,' knowing it will be covered, but needing to externalize that feeling of conflict. Other times, it's about stepping away and letting the layers dry, giving my subconscious time to sort itself out, much like how a dream needs space to fully form. It's in these moments that I remind myself that the struggle is the art, the wrestling with the unknown. This complex interplay allows viewers to find their own meaning in non-representational works, because the art becomes a mirror, reflecting their own inner world. The true narrative unfolds in the viewer’s own subconscious, an endless exchange that transcends literal interpretation.
It's also why my work often involves building depth and narrative through unseen layers. Each layer is a new thought, a new feeling, a response to what came before, much like how our inner lives are constantly building upon past experiences, sometimes burying them, sometimes bringing them back to the surface. And in the final stages, my intuition guides me on when to stop. This 'knowing when to stop,' when the canvas has absorbed enough of these inner conversations, is crucial. It's when the piece itself starts to 'breathe' on its own, conveying the initial emotion or sensation without needing any more input from me, even if my conscious mind is still pondering "just one more brushstroke." What surprising turns has your own intuition taken lately? The journey into the unknown continues with every new piece.
My Personal Language of the Unseen
This continuous dialogue with my subconscious, where I allow the unseen to be a co-creator, has naturally led to the development of my own abstract language. This visual vocabulary wasn't born overnight; it’s a testament to years of dedicated observation, of recording those fleeting sensations and attempting, again and again, to find their visual counterparts. My early work, though abstract, often felt like a series of disjointed experiments. It was only through consistent dream journaling and conscious reflection on what resonated deepest after painting that patterns began to emerge. I found myself drawn to certain shapes and color combinations repeatedly, like a child collecting specific pebbles on a beach. Over time, I started to recognize their 'meaning' for me, a constantly evolving dictionary of my soul. I've come to believe these deeply personal symbols often tap into something more universal – archetypal forms or primal emotional structures that surface in all of us, filtered through my unique lens. Figures like Jackson Pollock, with his raw, uninhibited 'action painting,' and Kandinsky again, with his theories on the spiritual in art, gave me courage to trust this deeply personal, non-representational path. This language is consistently refined through my artistic timeline.
It’s not a static dictionary, mind you, but an evolving set of visual motifs, color palettes, and compositional structures that feel uniquely mine. Here are a few examples, and a glimpse into why they resonate with my inner world:
- Swirling, fragmented circles: Often appear, symbolizing cycles of thought or emotional turmoil. In one piece, like "Echoes of a Restless Mind," they might be tightly packed and frenetic, signifying acute anxiety or obsessive thought patterns, with sharp breaks suggesting interrupted flow. In another, such as "Deep Contemplation," they could be looser and more expansive, representing reflective rumination or the gentle unfolding of an idea, with soft, overlapping edges. For instance, a recurring dream of being lost in a maze of thoughts directly inspired the frantic, interconnected circles in my piece "Labyrinth of the Mind." For me, these feel like the constant churn of my own thoughts, a visual representation of how ideas loop and connect in my mind.
- Jagged, intersecting lines: These tend to mark moments of conflict, disruption, or sudden, sharp clarity. In "Crossroads of Doubt," they might slice aggressively through softer forms, conveying a sense of abrupt change or internal friction. In "Moment of Truth," a single, stark jagged line cutting through a field of subdued colors might represent a sudden, undeniable insight, almost painful in its clarity. The sharpness of the line, almost like a tear in the fabric of the canvas, speaks volumes. These lines often represent the unexpected interruptions in life, the moments where calm is broken by a stark truth.
- Deep, saturated indigos and purples: Frequently signify introspection, profound peace, or hidden emotional depths. In "Nocturne of the Soul," these colors might blend seamlessly into a soft, atmospheric expanse, inviting quiet contemplation. Conversely, when juxtaposed with bright, restless hues, they can represent the profound, often melancholic, secrets held within the psyche. These are the colors of quiet thought, of sinking into the unknown depths of one's own being.
- Radiant, almost neon yellows and oranges: These often burst forth, representing moments of sudden insight, surges of energy, or unexpected joy that cut through darker moods. In a piece like "Dawn of an Idea," a vibrant streak of orange might erupt from a muted background, symbolizing a breakthrough, a flash of pure, unadulterated creative spark. Their intensity can feel almost jarring, like a sudden awakening. These bright hues are the 'aha!' moments, the sudden bursts of clarity or uncontainable elation that punctuate life.
The Power of Negative Space
Beyond these explicit motifs, I've also found the deliberate use of negative space – the 'empty' areas around and between forms – to be a crucial part of my abstract language. It's not just absence; it's a deliberate pause, a silent presence that reflects moments of contemplation, or the vast, unformed potential that exists before creation. Negative space is an active compositional element; it creates meaning through contrast and breathing room. In a piece like "Before the Storm," expansive, untouched areas of canvas might emphasize a looming tension, the quiet before a chaotic burst. Conversely, tightly constricted negative spaces in "Urban Echoes" could convey feelings of compression or claustrophobia. Sometimes, the quietest parts of a painting speak the loudest, mirroring those moments in our subconscious when thoughts are just beginning to coalesce.
This journey of finding my artistic voice has been one of the most rewarding aspects of my life as an artist. It’s a constant excavation, a gentle probing into the depths of what makes me, me. And it's what I strive to offer in every piece I create – a glimpse into that rich, internal world, made tangible. A constant exploration of self through color and form, echoing the pioneers of Abstract Expressionism who sought to express inner experience. What elements of your own inner world are you curious to explore? Our inner worlds are an endless wellspring of inspiration.
Inviting Your Own Unseen World In
You don't have to be an artist to tap into the profound power of your unseen world. This rich inner landscape isn't reserved for a select few; it's a universal wellspring of insight and creativity. Simply allowing yourself to observe your dreams, to reflect on your gut feelings, and to ponder the subtle emotional shifts throughout your day can be incredibly insightful – a kind of everyday detective work into your own being. It's about paying attention to the subtle cues, the 'pings' from your subconscious that often get drowned out by the noise of daily life. Try to intentionally pause, even for just a minute, and ask yourself: 'What emotion am I truly feeling right now, underneath the surface?' Or before sleep, mentally review your day, not for tasks completed, but for unexpected feelings or fleeting images that caught your attention. And when it comes to appreciating abstract art, remember that it's less about 'what is it?' and more about 'how does it make me feel?' It's an invitation to a personal dialogue, a mirroring of your own inner landscape. Perhaps you'll find a resonance that sparks something new within you, a reflection of a truth you hadn't articulated.
My hope is that when you look at my art, perhaps even one of the pieces available for sale, you'll not only see the colors and forms but also feel a connection to something deeper – a resonance with your own inner landscape, a recognition of shared human experience. Consider exploring my available art as a starting point, or visiting my museum in 's-Hertogenbosch to experience this journey firsthand. Step into the conversation, and see what awakens within you. What whispers are you hearing today? I'd love to hear your thoughts and experiences in the comments below, or perhaps it's a feeling you'll carry with you, ready to be translated into your own unique expression, whatever form that takes.
FAQ: The Dream-Inspired Canvas
Q: Do you literally paint your dreams?
A: Not usually, in the sense of trying to accurately depict a dream scene. Instead, I focus on the essence – the emotion, the mood, the dominant colors or shapes that lingered after waking. It's about translating the feeling of the dream, rather than its narrative.
Q: Is this approach only for abstract artists?
A: Not at all! While particularly potent for abstract art, connecting with your subconscious can enrich any creative endeavor. It helps in developing unique perspectives and infusing your work with deeper, more personal meaning, regardless of style.
Q: How can I access my subconscious for creative inspiration?
A: Many ways! The key is to create space for those quieter, non-rational thoughts to emerge without judgment, and to approach them with curiosity, not criticism. Here are a few starting points:
- Dream Journaling: Keep a small notebook by your bed. Immediately upon waking, jot down keywords, emotions, or fragments you remember, however fleeting. Don't worry about logic or narrative.
- Meditation & Quiet Contemplation: Even a few minutes of silent observation of your thoughts and feelings can open doors. Notice what bubbles up when your mind isn't actively engaged in a task.
- Free Association: Pick a random word or object and let your mind wander, noting down any images, feelings, or memories that surface without censoring.
- Sensory Immersion: Engage deeply with your senses. Listen to complex, dissonant jazz music, paying attention to the emotions it evokes. Spend time in nature, observing the intricate patterns of leaves or the texture of rough bark, or smelling damp earth after rain. These intense, non-visual experiences bypass the conscious filter and tap into raw, subconscious responses.
- Pre-Sleep Prompts: Before bed, ask yourself a question, like "What emotion did I feel most intensely today, even briefly?" and jot down keywords. See what your mind processes overnight.
- Active Imagination/Automatic Writing: Explore Jung's concept of 'active imagination' – allowing dream images or unconscious thoughts to develop freely while awake, engaging with them as if in a dialogue. Or try 'automatic writing,' letting your hand move freely across paper without conscious thought. Both techniques are effective because they actively bypass the conscious censor, allowing raw subconscious flow to emerge without rational interference, much like the Surrealists experimented with.
- Engage with Abstract Art: Paradoxically, looking at non-representational art can also open pathways to your own subconscious. Without a literal image to grasp, your mind is free to project its own meanings and emotions, stimulating introspection.
Q: How do you deal with creative blocks when the subconscious 'goes quiet'?
A: Oh, the quiet subconscious! It happens to us all. I once spent an entire week trying to 'force' a breakthrough, staring at a blank canvas with a grim determination, convinced if I just willed it, inspiration would appear. What did I end up with? A muddy brown blob that looked suspiciously like a sad potato. It taught me that forcing it is like trying to catch mist in a net – utterly pointless and exhausting.
Now, I approach blocks differently. When the subconscious whispers fade, I simply walk away. I might:
- Go to a gallery or read a book.
- Watch the clouds or spend time in nature to 'recharge' that inner well.
- Switch to more deliberate, experimental exercises, like playing with new materials or challenging myself with a limited palette.
- Draw without any specific goal, just to keep the hand moving.
- Revisit early sketchbooks or unfinished pieces: Sometimes, looking at past explorations can spark new ideas or reveal forgotten impulses, reminding me of a path I'd abandoned or a feeling I hadn't fully resolved.
For example, after a particularly stubborn block, a visit to a contemporary dance performance once completely re-ignited my flow, not because I painted the dancers, but because the raw energy and movement re-tuned my own internal rhythm. The key is to avoid forcing it; instead, I trust that the subconscious will eventually resurface with new insights. It's less about finding inspiration and more about making myself available when it decides to show up, much like waiting for an elusive animal to emerge from the woods when it's ready, not when you demand it.
Q: How do you know when a dream-inspired abstract piece is 'finished' if the subconscious is so fluid?
A: Ah, the eternal question! It's one of the trickiest parts of the process. If I'm trying to capture a literal scene, I'd know it's done when the scene is depicted. But with the subconscious, there's no fixed image. For me, it's less about 'finishing' and more about reaching a point of internal resonance, a quiet 'click.' It's when the dialogue between my inner world and the canvas feels complete, when the piece itself starts to 'breathe' on its own, conveying the initial emotion or sensation without needing any more input from me. Sometimes, it’s a feeling of exhaustion, like I’ve poured everything I had into it. Other times, it’s a profound sense of peace, a feeling of visual harmony or balance that feels intuitively right, even if it's not conventionally perfect. My conscious mind might still want to add 'just one more brushstroke,' but my intuitive self tells me, 'Stop. It's done. Don't overwork the whisper.' It's a feeling of balanced tension and resolution, a sense that the mystery has been appropriately unveiled, leaving just enough room for the viewer to bring their own subconscious into the conversation.
Conclusion: The Endless Dialogue
The unseen world of dreams and the subconscious is a boundless source of inspiration, a constantly shifting landscape waiting to be explored. For me, abstract art is the perfect vessel for this exploration, allowing me to express the inexpressible and give shape to the formless within. It's a privilege, really, to spend my days wrestling with the unseen, translating those potent, elusive internal currents into something tangible, something that lives outside of me and can resonate with you. Each abstract painting is a chapter in this ongoing, deeply personal story, a moment captured from the vibrant depths of being. It's a testament to the idea that the most profound art often emerges from the most intimate corners of the self, offering not just a visual experience, but an invitation into a shared human mystery. It's a continuous, unfolding conversation between my inner world and the canvas, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Thank you for joining me on this reflective journey through the hidden corners of creativity. Perhaps it will inspire you to explore your own, and discover the art that lies within.