When a Painting Grows on You
There’s a painting I made a few months ago.
At the time, I liked it—but I wasn’t completely sure about it. It didn’t have the immediate clarity or confidence of some of my other works. It felt a little unresolved. A little quiet.
But something interesting has happened.
The more I see it, the more I like it.
Not in a dramatic way. It hasn’t suddenly become a favourite overnight. It’s more subtle than that. I just find myself pausing on it. Looking a little longer. Not quite being able to move past it.
It’s… interesting.
And I’ve started to realise that this kind of response might matter more than instant appeal.
When you’re close to a painting, you see all the decisions behind it—the adjustments, the compromises, the moments where it didn’t quite match what you had in mind. You’re judging it against an internal version of what it should have been.
But with time, that fades.
You start to see the work as it actually is. Almost as if someone else made it.
And sometimes, that’s when a painting reveals its strength.
Not everything needs to be immediately likeable. Some works hold back. They don’t give everything away at once. They sit quietly, and if you give them time, they begin to unfold.
I think this painting might be one of those.
Interestingly, it’s also started to gain a bit more attention online recently. Nothing dramatic—but enough to notice. A few more views. A bit more engagement. Just a quiet sense that it’s being seen.
And that feels fitting.
Because it’s not a loud painting.
It’s one that asks you to stay a little longer.
