Third Photo Paint-Over: Havana and “Lola”

For my third photo paint-over experiment, I chose a holiday snap from my 2013 trip to Cuba. The photograph was taken in Havana and shows me standing beside “Lola,” one of the city’s many brightly coloured vintage cars. The scene could hardly be more Cuban — an old American car gleaming in the sun, colonial buildings in the background, and a street alive with movement and colour.

This time, however, it wasn’t just the car or the architecture that came with a story. The day the photo was taken included one of those travel moments that turns into an unforgettable memory — part funny, part awkward, and very, very human.

The Story Behind the Photo

Earlier that day, our tour group had stopped at a local market. It was busy and vibrant, stalls filled with handicrafts, jewellery, and textiles. An elderly woman running one of the stalls approached me with a smile and asked if I would like a couple of dreadlocks braided into the front of my hair.

“Why not?” I thought. It sounded like a fun little experiment — a way to take a piece of Cuba with me, even if just temporarily.

I sat down, expecting two or three small braids. But somewhere along the way, the lady clearly had a much bigger plan. She began working methodically, and it soon became clear she wasn’t going to stop at just a couple. With no mirror in front of me, I didn’t fully realise what was happening until it was far too late to protest.

By the time I understood, she had decided to braid my entire head into dreadlocks.

The problem wasn’t the hair itself — though I wasn’t entirely sure I could carry off the look — it was the time. What was meant to be a quick novelty took much, much longer. The tour bus was waiting, the schedule was ticking, and I was stuck in the chair while everyone else waited patiently.

I remember feeling increasingly embarrassed as the minutes turned into an hour. It was one of those moments when you desperately wish you knew more of the local language. If only I had done more Spanish classes, I might have been able to negotiate a polite stop. Instead, I sat there while the braids multiplied, trying to smile but knowing I was holding everyone up.

When I finally rejoined the group, my head fully transformed, I felt sheepish. It was probably the lowest point of the trip for me — not because of the hairstyle, but because I knew how important it was to keep to schedule on tours. And there I was, the one who had delayed everyone.

But that’s travel. Sometimes you plan, and sometimes the day has its own ideas.

The Painting Experiment

When I chose this photograph for my paint-over project, I wasn’t only revisiting the memory of “Lola” and the dreadlocks. I was also curious to experiment with new materials. For this piece, I combined pencils, gouache, and, for the first time, Faber Castell’s acrylic paint pens.

The pens took a bit of getting used to. At first you have to shake them vigorously to get the paint flowing, and the nibs feel different from brushes. But once the paint started coming through, I found them surprisingly fun. They offered a bold, graphic quality that contrasted nicely with the softer pencil marks and gouache washes.

On photo paper, the combination created an interesting layered effect. The glossy surface pushed me to think differently about how to build colour and texture. Instead of working with large, sweeping brushstrokes (as I often do on canvas), I had to slow down, adjust, and play with smaller areas of colour.

The result feels more like a travel diary entry than a polished artwork — bright, pop-like, a little messy, and full of energy. That felt right for Havana, a city that bursts with colour and contradiction.

Havana’s Backdrop

The backdrop of the photo — Havana’s colonial facades — added its own richness. Crumbling plaster, peeling paint, flashes of colour against faded walls. For me, Havana was a city where time seemed layered rather than linear. You could see echoes of past grandeur, revolutionary slogans, and everyday life all at once.

Painting over the photograph allowed me to highlight some of that atmosphere, not in detail but in mood. The hot pink of “Lola” became even more vibrant. My dress in the photo turned a saturated orange, echoing the warmth of the day. The whole scene took on a slightly surreal, almost pop-art quality.

It wasn’t about accuracy. It was about capturing the memory — the humour of the hair incident, the energy of the street, the way Havana felt alive in every corner.

Reflections

Looking back, I realised how this little experiment mirrored the day itself. Just as the market lady had taken control of my hairstyle, the art materials had a mind of their own. The pens flowed unpredictably, the surfaces resisted, the colours took on lives of their own.

At first it felt awkward, uncertain. But with a little persistence, the unpredictability became part of the joy. The finished piece is not perfect, but it is playful. It feels honest — like a moment captured with laughter and chaos.

That, I think, is part of what makes both travel and art so rewarding. They take us places we don’t expect. They push us out of our comfort zones. They hand us stories — sometimes embarrassing, sometimes funny, sometimes beautiful — that we couldn’t have written ourselves.

If the Palacio de Valle paint-over felt jewel-like and Hemingway’s home felt reflective, then “Lola” is a burst of colour, a wink, a reminder not to take things too seriously.

Closing Thought

Sometimes the best memories aren’t the ones we plan. They’re the ones that happen when a stranger decides to braid your entire head into dreadlocks, or when a painting pen decides to leak unexpectedly across the page. They’re the surprises that remind us to laugh, to let go, and to see the beauty in the unexpected.

That’s what this little experiment with “Lola” became for me: a memory re-imagined in colour, a story retold through paint, and a reminder that sometimes, art — like travel — is at its best when it doesn’t go according to plan.

For my second experiment in painting over photographs, I chose the Palacio de Valle in Cienfuegos, Cuba. I visited this remarkable building in 2013, and even now the memory of it still feels vivid, like stepping into a storybook.

The Artist’s Experiment

After working on Hemingway’s home in Havana for my first paint-over, I wanted to explore a different challenge. What I discovered with this piece was the special quality of working directly onto the photograph itself.

If the surface isn’t too glossy, painting onto the photo creates a tactile dialogue between the printed image and the brush. Each stroke shifts the photo from something fixed and mechanical into something living and interpretive. Working at a small scale forces you to slow down, to notice the tiniest details — the curve of an arch, the pattern of an iron railing, the shadow beneath a roof tile.

The finished piece feels almost jewel-like, not because of grandeur, but because of its intimacy. It holds the detail of a place in miniature, capturing the atmosphere in a way a larger canvas might not.

A Palace Like a Story

The Palacio de Valle itself is unforgettable. Built in 1913, it was designed to echo the grandeur of a Persian palace, with Moorish arches, Gothic flourishes, and Baroque carvings woven together into one extravagant creation.

When I stepped inside, it felt like walking into a dream. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting brilliant patterns of red, gold, and green across the mosaic floors. The air was heavy with history, and the walls seemed to whisper with the echoes of another era.

Over time, the building has played many roles: a private mansion, a high-end hotel, nearly a casino, and finally, after the Revolution, a state-run restaurant. Wandering through its rooms and terraces, I felt as though each corner held a trace of its layered past.

The rooftop bar looked out over the bay, and I remember pausing on a terrace to breathe in the view — water stretching to the horizon, framed by delicate ironwork and carved stone. The palace radiated both elegance and decay, glamorous yet worn, timeless yet fragile.

Reflections

Painting over the photograph became a way of holding onto that memory — not just as an image, but as an experience. The brush softened the edges, lent warmth to the stone, and gave the palace back its dreamlike quality.

The Palacio de Valle reminded me that some places are more than architecture: they are stories carved in stone, waiting to be remembered. And working directly on the photograph turned my memory of that moment into something tangible and jewel-like — a small keepsake from a larger journey.

Have you ever visited a place that felt like stepping into a storybook?

Years ago, for a university assignment, I found myself in Auckland’s Vero Centre at eight o’clock on a weekday morning. The building is one of the city’s most prestigious office towers, home to multinational firms and major financial institutions. But I wasn’t there to study the architecture, the corporate culture, or the skyline views. My focus was on something quieter, yet just as significant: the art.

The task was simple — ask office workers how they felt about the art in their building, and whether they would notice if it wasn’t there.

The Coffee Queue Conversations

It’s a delicate thing to approach office workers first thing in the morning. People are usually preoccupied, rushing to elevators or glancing at their phones. So instead of interrupting them on their way to work, I chose a softer approach. I went to the café on the ground floor where people waited for their coffee orders — that brief pause between home and desk, when the day hasn’t fully started.

One by one, I asked them about the art they saw daily in the building. And without exception, they were willing to chat. Some spoke quickly, others at length, but all gave variations of the same answer: the art mattered.

They noticed it. They enjoyed it. They felt uplifted by it. And yes, they would definitely notice — and feel a sense of loss — if it were taken away.

More Than Decoration

What struck me was how naturally people spoke about art as part of their work environment. None of them were professional critics, and most didn’t even claim to know much about art. But they didn’t need specialist knowledge to feel its presence.

They described how seeing a sculpture or a painting when they walked in gave them a moment of pause. It was simply part of the atmosphere, the character of the place. For many, it had become inseparable from the building itself.

One person told me that it made the space feel “human.” Another said it gave them something different to look at, a small escape from spreadsheets and emails. Someone else remarked that without the art, “this would just be another office tower.”

Their answers weren’t about art as luxury or prestige. They were about art as belonging.

What Happens When It’s Missing

If you’ve ever hung a painting on your own wall, then taken it down, you know the difference instantly. A wall without art feels bare. The room loses a layer of warmth and character. You might not consciously notice the absence at first, but you feel it.

The same is true in offices. We often underestimate how much the work environment influences mood, focus, and energy. A sterile space may be functional, but it lacks resonance. Adding art doesn’t just fill walls — it adds colour, rhythm, and inspiration to the day.

The Vero Centre workers confirmed what research has long suggested: art in the workplace contributes to wellbeing. It lifts spirits, sparks curiosity, and creates a sense of identity for a company or team.

Not Just for Corporates

Of course, not every business can afford large-scale sculptures or installations like those in the Vero building. Those pieces are investments, curated collections designed to impress.

But the principle holds true on a smaller scale. Even a single painting in a staffroom, or a rotating selection of prints in a hallway, can shift the atmosphere. Staff resonate with art. They notice it, often more than management expects. And they value it.

Art says: “We thought about you. We want you to feel inspired here.”

It’s not about extravagance — it’s about recognition of the human need for beauty and meaning, even in everyday spaces.

A Personal Reflection

Looking back on that assignment, what stayed with me wasn’t the answers themselves, but the clarity with which people expressed them. There was no hesitation. Everyone, without exception, said yes: the art made a difference.

It made me think about how easily we dismiss or overlook the role of art outside galleries and museums. In truth, most of us encounter art more often in public or professional spaces — in lobbies, offices, cafés, or corridors — than in dedicated art institutions.

These encounters are brief, sometimes only seconds, but they matter. They punctuate our routines. They give shape to the spaces where we spend so much of our lives.

As an artist, that’s deeply encouraging. It reminds me that art doesn’t need to be monumental to matter. It can be quiet, familiar, woven into the fabric of a workplace — and still make an impact every single day.

Why This Matters Now

In recent years, with hybrid and remote work reshaping how we think about offices, companies are asking new questions about what makes a workplace worth coming into. Pay, perks, and technology are important, but so is the atmosphere — the sense that a space is more than just desks and screens.

Art is part of that answer. It signals care, identity, and vision. It can reflect a company’s values, honour cultural connections, or simply provide moments of colour and stillness amid busyness.

Investing in art is not just about appearances. It’s about creating environments where people feel engaged and appreciated.

Closing Thought

That morning in the Vero Centre café, I realised something simple: art is not optional. It might be the quietest presence in a building, but it’s also one of the most essential. Workers felt its absence before it even happened. They imagined the walls bare and shuddered.

Not every workplace can install sculptures in the lobby or commission bespoke collections. But every workplace can choose to hang something that matters.

Because once art becomes part of a space — whether in a corporate tower or a corner office — it belongs there. It becomes part of people’s daily rhythm, part of the story of where they work. And if it were taken away, they’d notice. They’d care.

That’s the quiet power of art.

This week I tried something new — painting directly over a photograph. The image I chose was taken inside Ernest Hemingway’s Cuban home, Finca Vigía, which I had the chance to visit back in 2013. It was a worthwhile exercise for two reasons:

1. Colour Mixing Practice
   Painting over a printed photo gave me the chance to test and adjust shades against what was already there. I didn’t need to match the colours exactly, just shift them slightly lighter or darker so I could see where I’d been. It became a subtle, almost meditative exercise in perception.

2. Brush Control
   I usually paint on large canvases, using big brushes and even rollers. Switching to a 000 brush meant slowing right down, steadying my hand, and paying attention to detail. It was a complete change of pace, one that sharpened my control in ways I hadn’t expected.

The result may not be something I’d ever sell, but that wasn’t the point. It was about patience, discipline, and seeing differently.

Stepping Back into Hemingway’s Cuba

What made this experiment especially meaningful was that the photograph I chose came from a place I visited in 2013 — Ernest Hemingway’s private residence, Finca Vigía (Lookout Farm), just outside Havana. It remains one of the highlights of my trip to Cuba, an experience that has stayed with me ever since.

Visiting the villa felt like stepping into a time capsule, a deeply intimate tribute to one of America’s most influential writers. The 1890s Spanish-style home offered a fascinating glimpse into a different era of Cuban life — layered with echoes of American influence, revolutionary history, and even traces of Soviet presence.

I wandered through Hemingway’s living and dining rooms, imagining the conversations and toasts once shared there. His office, with its cluttered charm, revealed where much of his writing had taken shape. Most surprising of all was the typewriter perched on top of a bookcase in his bedroom. Hemingway, it turns out, preferred to write while standing.

Everywhere I looked, his presence lingered. Posters of bullfighters hung on the walls, armchairs sat ready for reading, books filled the shelves. Visitors weren’t allowed inside, but with the wide-open windows it almost didn’t matter — I could see everything: his books, his furniture, even that typewriter, perched in place as though he’d just stepped away.

The house was airy and inviting, a writer’s paradise frozen in time. Clothes still hung in the wardrobe, magazines were stacked on tables, and it all felt as though Hemingway might return at any moment to demand who had moved his fishing hat. The estate radiated a glamorous kind of decay, touched with the ghost of a wilder Havana when movie stars and mobsters filled the nightclubs, and no one questioned why your house needed a bar the size of a hotel lobby.

Out on the grounds, I stood before Pilar, his beloved fishing boat — now a national treasure, famous for inspiring The Old Man and the Sea. The gardens were lush, full of tropical plants, a tennis court, and even a pet cemetery. The Havana skyline stretched in the distance, the light and air cinematic, a reminder of why Hemingway never wanted to leave.

And then there was the tower. The three-storey lookout housed a writing studio perched high above the grounds. The staircase was narrow and rickety, the handrail unreliable, but I climbed carefully to the top. The view was worth every precarious step. Hemingway had completed seven books while living in Havana, and here in this simple studio — a desk, a chair, a bookcase overflowing with worn volumes, a telescope pointing toward the city — I felt the ghost of his presence. It wasn’t luxurious, but it didn’t need to be.

Standing in that room, sunlight pouring through the shutters, I imagined Hemingway himself at the desk: shirt rumpled, drink nearby, plot unfolding with every keystroke. It struck me as one of the most blissful places in the world to write.

What moved me most was the feeling that it wasn’t only about Hemingway’s legacy. It was about the reminder that with the right space, a little solitude, and a view to stir the imagination, anyone might find their story.

Closing Reflections

So while this paint-over experiment may not be a piece I’ll ever put up for sale, it holds meaning for me — a small practice in patience, and a reminder of the sacred creative spaces that artists before us have inhabited. Hemingway had his tower; I had this photograph and a 000 brush.

Sometimes, experiments like these aren’t about the finished result at all. They’re about staying open to practice, inspiration, and the possibility of finding new ways to see.

Have you ever visited a place that changed the way you thought about creativity?

When I began this piece, I wasn’t trying to compete with Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus — how could anyone? Instead, I wanted to explore what happens when a familiar image is seen through a different lens, one shaped not by mythology, but by faith.

In Botticelli’s original, Venus rises from the seafoam, a goddess of beauty and desire, greeted by the winds and attended by figures from classical myth. Her arrival is sensual, ethereal, and full of movement. I kept the shell, the stance, and the sense of arrival — but I shifted the meaning.

In my version, the woman is not a goddess, but a modern figure born of Spirit. She stands poised, her stillness a quiet strength, her gaze holding something more inward — the beginning of an awakening.

The inspiration came from John 3:3:

“Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.”

I wanted the work to speak to transformation, identity, and grace — themes that run deep in my faith and in my art. Where Botticelli’s Venus is born of seafoam, this figure is born of Spirit. She is not celebrated for her divine sensuality, but for her renewal.

There’s also an echo of 2 Corinthians 5:17:

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!”

This painting isn’t a rejection of the original — in fact, it’s a tribute to Botticelli’s enduring vision. But by reframing it through a biblical perspective, the scene transforms from a mythological birth to a portrait of redemption. It becomes a space for contemplation — about what it means to be made new, and how art can bridge centuries, cultures, and beliefs.

I’d love to hear your thoughts: If you could reimagine any work from art history through your own lens — whether cultural, personal, or spiritual — which would you choose, and how might you transform its meaning?