130 × 100 × 4 cm
Acrylic on canvas.
Free shipping anywhere in the world.
This painting emerged from thinking about sound—not as something heard, but as something felt. I was imagining the way spaces hold vibrations, how colour can operate like a frequency that moves across surfaces and through time. Each panel functions as a different register: some quiet and submerged, others sharp and reverberant. The landscape, sky, and figures do not describe a single moment, but feel tuned to different pitches of the same atmosphere, as though the world itself were humming beneath perception.
I felt that colour could be the primary carrier of this resonance. Layered hues can bleed, collide, and dissolve, creating optical rhythms that suggest echo and delay. I was thinking about Kandinsky’s belief in colour as a spiritual sound, and Rothko’s ability to create fields that feel less visual than experiential—both of whom had a huge effect on me early in my formative creative development.
Here, colour can behave less like description and more like vibration, holding emotional weight that shifts as the eye moves between panels. The fragmented structure can stretch or overlap time. As I was painting, the images felt remembered, overheard, or sensed rather than directly witnessed. Sound becomes a metaphor for continuity: how experiences linger, how places leave traces long after we’ve passed through them. I want the painting to invite the viewer to listen with their eyes, to feel how colour resonates across moments, carrying memory, emotion, and presence in ways that resist a single narrative or fixed meaning.
130 × 100 × 4 cm
Acrylic on canvas.
Free shipping anywhere in the world.
This painting emerged from thinking about sound—not as something heard, but as something felt. I was imagining the way spaces hold vibrations, how colour can operate like a frequency that moves across surfaces and through time. Each panel functions as a different register: some quiet and submerged, others sharp and reverberant. The landscape, sky, and figures do not describe a single moment, but feel tuned to different pitches of the same atmosphere, as though the world itself were humming beneath perception.
I felt that colour could be the primary carrier of this resonance. Layered hues can bleed, collide, and dissolve, creating optical rhythms that suggest echo and delay. I was thinking about Kandinsky’s belief in colour as a spiritual sound, and Rothko’s ability to create fields that feel less visual than experiential—both of whom had a huge effect on me early in my formative creative development.
Here, colour can behave less like description and more like vibration, holding emotional weight that shifts as the eye moves between panels. The fragmented structure can stretch or overlap time. As I was painting, the images felt remembered, overheard, or sensed rather than directly witnessed. Sound becomes a metaphor for continuity: how experiences linger, how places leave traces long after we’ve passed through them. I want the painting to invite the viewer to listen with their eyes, to feel how colour resonates across moments, carrying memory, emotion, and presence in ways that resist a single narrative or fixed meaning.
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