Tuning into Art is the Path

Let me start at the end.

For the past few weeks, my mornings have revolved around a simple intention: tuning into art. I wake up, still sleepy, put on my blue robe, make a double espresso, and wander into the studio. I open the big curtains, look out at the garden, and quietly contemplate the abandoned paintings resting around the room—waiting for so long holding that skin with those woody bones.

One of those mornings, I felt drawn to that large 1.2 x 1.2 meter painting that hangs on the wall, placed away where no one can see it. I had titled it Samba Garden, after a song I released years ago (Deep Souls), but honestly, I never quite loved it. Not the first version, not the tenth. After countless battles with it, I was ready to try again.

This painting has lived many lives. I started it while living in the Swiss countryside and later carried it with me to the U.S. I have added more layers to it than I can remember. But last week, I finally felt it was finished. It took four years and five months. The story behind it is much longer and more introspective, so here I want to share the first part of that journey.

I had the idea to cover it with unbleached titanium. For me, layering is like returning to the beginning, where the top layer becomes a new canvas. In the mornings that followed, I painted in that half-dream state, still not fully awake. I let the brush hide only the parts I did not feel aligned with, letting the rest float freely in the new medium. My strategy was to set aside what no longer fit in the painting, allowing only the bright colors to be shown.

Through that meditation and flow in the studio, day after day, I began to recognize something deeper. It was no longer just about painting—it resonated with the way I process life. Ever since I can remember, I have learned to see the tiny positive particles floating in the tricky sea of negativity. I have always tried to compensate when people or situations were not perfect. I will analyze if that certain person did something good for me unintentionally, and that would balance it all—I would be happy on a more fair ground.

That happened in my painting. It was not just about hiding the ugly parts. It went beyond the medium. It became a form of restoration—emotional, whimsical, soul-level. That is the optimistic abstract artist, because those mornings, I was not just layering paint. I was covering the negative actions or words that had surfaced in my mind, and I definitely do not want to remember them—because in their place, I found a multi-colored garden that looked promising, full of hope and clarity.