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I wrote my last blog post on the metro.

Still can’t believe I did. I thought I was just jotting down a couple of loose ideas—some rough, vague notions to kickstart a draft (which I’d probably rewrite later). But by the time I looked up, the full post was there, staring back at me from my phone screen. Done. Complete. Tied up in a neat little bow.

And where was I? Sandwiched between a tired businessman (you know the type: eyes glued to his phone, probably crushing spreadsheets) and a student buried under the weight of her textbooks, the pages a blur of words she’s pretending to read. All while the train jolted and screeched its way through the tunnels like it had somewhere far more important to be.

Recently, though, something strange has been happening: I’m finding my best ideas on trains. 

Not in the studio, where the easels are lined up like soldiers and the canvases lie in wait, all primed and ready. Not in the quiet moments of early morning, when I’m supposed to be fresh and sharp (nope, just sleepy). But right there, amid the cacophony of station announcements and the low hum of commuters pretending not to notice each other.

Isn’t that odd? 

I’m in a whirlwind period right now. You know the type: projects stacked on top of projects, meetings bleeding into one another, days that blur from dawn until I collapse back into bed. It’s not exactly conducive to creative epiphanies—or so I thought. And yet, when I’m squeezed into a seat on the metro, with strangers leaning a bit too close, my brain seems to kick into high gear.

The last blog post? I wrote it in two rounds. One on the way to a meeting (less than 20 minutes), the second on the ride back. That’s it. And not only did I get the whole post down, I also scribbled a handful of new ideas for projects that I actually like (which, if you’re a creative, you know is saying something).

It’s almost like—stay with me here—the sheer, unrelenting busyness of life right now has backed my brain into a corner. So it finds its way out through these little slivers of stolen time. When I’m on the train, the world shrinks to this tiny, confined bubble. My schedule, my deadlines, my To-Do list? They can’t fit in here. There’s only space for what’s right in front of me: the phone, my thumbs typing out sentences as fast as they can, and the ideas spilling out because, apparently, they have nowhere else to go.

It’s beautifully imperfect. 

Imperfectly beautiful.  

Beautifully imperfect.  

Whatever you want to call it, it’s something unexpected, something that feels almost like a rebellion against the rigidity of my day. Like creativity whispering, “Oh, you’re too busy, are you? Let’s see what happens if I catch you off guard.”

And so, it happens on the train. In the chaos. 

But on the metro, I’m not expected to be productive. 

I’m just expected to get from Point A to Point B.

And that’s precisely when it happens. 

The ideas creep in, tiptoeing like they’re afraid to get caught. They come during the jerky stops and starts, in the awkward silence that follows a missed station announcement, in the mundane choreography of people shifting to make room for each other. There’s a rhythm to it all, a kind of strange, disjointed ballet—and somewhere in that rhythm, I find words.

Or maybe the words find me.

Who knows?

The point is: my creative brain has found a way to adapt. Like water slipping through the cracks of a stone wall, it’s finding every little nook and crevice to slip into.

 Because creativity, for all its elusiveness, is stubborn.

 If it can’t have your long, luxurious hours of uninterrupted time, it’ll take what it can get. Ten minutes here, five minutes there, a handful of seconds somewhere in between—it doesn’t matter. It will carve out its space.

Maybe that’s the real beauty of it all. That it doesn’t need perfect conditions or ample time or the right tools. It just needs you to show up. And if you can’t show up fully? Well, then just bring whatever pieces of yourself you can muster. Even if those pieces are a bit ragged and worn from a long day (or week) of running around.

I used to think I needed a “creative routine.” Some holy grail of a schedule that would summon the muses like clockwork. But lately, I’m realizing it’s not about having a routine. It’s about being open to the unexpected, about letting creativity sneak up on you when you’re not paying attention. 

The train rides remind me of that.

So maybe it’s not so strange after all. Maybe my mind is just doing what minds are supposed to do: finding a way through, even when things feel overwhelming. It’s as if it’s saying, “Fine, I’ll take your packed calendar and your endless meetings. But I’m still going to create. Even if I have to squeeze in between subway seats to do it.”

I don’t know if this phase will last. Maybe it’s a fleeting thing, like the temporary calm of a quiet train car before it fills up again. But for now, I’ll take it. I’ll take the words that come out of the noise, the ideas that emerge from the chaos.

Because right now, on those brief train rides, everything else falls away.

And I’m just there—just writing—while the world outside hurtles by.

Ok. It’s over. After what feels like an eternity of sketching, scribbling, staring at blank canvases (oh, the judgmental stare of a blank canvas), mixing paints, and reworking ideas that seemed brilliant at 3 a.m. but utterly senseless by dawn, I can finally say it: the new series is done. 

But let’s take a step back, because “done” is a funny word. It implies some sort of clear, definitive ending. A firm, satisfying conclusion. The truth? The artist’s version of “done” is never really that simple. It’s more like a reluctant, exhausted surrender. The series is done not because there isn’t more I could do to it, but because I had to let it be. There’s a moment when you look at your work and realize you’re just fiddling with details that only your eye can see (and even then, you’re not entirely sure if you’re fixing something or ruining it). So, yes, for all intents and purposes: it’s done.

In a few days, all the paintings will be heading to Shanghai. There, the gallery staff will begin the final leg of preparation for the to be announced Art Fair. It’s a strange feeling, seeing your work packed up, shipped off, and handled by others—like watching your kid head off to college. You’re proud, of course, but also a bit nervous. (Will they remember to call? Will they find good lighting?) I always imagine my kids (the paintings) whispering to each other as they make their journey, critiquing the bubble wrap technique or arguing about who gets the better position on the wall. 

It’s been an amazing journey. (And yes, I’m using the word “journey” unironically.) From the initial challenge of adapting to a completely new format to the very last (un)delicate brushstroke, I’ve enjoyed every single step. And that’s saying something, because some of those steps were less like skipping down a sunlit path and more like trudging through a muddy field in the rain. But that’s what makes it worthwhile.  

Adopting a new format forced me to break old habits, to look for a fresh language on the canvas. I couldn’t just rely on my usual tricks (which is a polite way of saying shortcuts) to solve compositional challenges. I had to push myself to find new ways of expressing familiar ideas. There were times I felt like I was learning to paint all over again, which, by the way, is incredibly exciting. There’s a rawness to it—a vulnerability that makes you second-guess everything you thought you knew. But, in that discomfort, I found something unexpectedly freeing. I discovered a new visual rhythm, a new way of “speaking” through color and form. (Of course, not without some grumbling along the way.)  

Each painting in this series demanded its own voice, its own tone, even if they’re all part of a larger conversation. It’s like conducting an orchestra where every instrument is trying to play a solo. You have to coax, cajole, and sometimes wrestle them into harmony. But once they start to sing together, there’s a moment of clarity. A feeling that maybe—just maybe—you’ve captured something genuine.  

And now what?

I have a slew of new projects lined up and a calendar that’s borderline intimidating. Exhibitions, events, collaborations. The usual whirlwind that pulls you along whether you’re ready or not. But, despite the excitement, I find myself hesitating at the doorstep of this transition. It’s like trying to say goodbye to an old friend you’re not quite ready to leave behind.

Letting go isn’t easy. Not for me, at least. Ending a project and starting a new one feels more like molting—a slow shedding of skin that’s left every cell of mine steeped in the essence of this last series. And no matter how much I try to “move on,” there’s always a part of me that’s still clinging to the last piece. It’s not just the visual memory of the work; it’s the emotions and thoughts that went into creating it. It’s the ghosts of midnight revelations and the residue of early morning doubts.

When you spend months—sometimes years—immersed in a project, it becomes part of your identity. I’ve often found that the process of creating a series has a way of weaving itself into my life in ways I don’t notice until much later. It colors my dreams, shifts my routines, and sometimes even changes the way I see the world outside the studio. 

The thoughts, the processes, the questions (and yes, even the frustrations) linger. They haunt my creativity, hovering like familiar ghosts. I’ll catch myself absentmindedly mixing colors for a palette that doesn’t belong to my new work or doodling a motif that I thought I had left behind. It’s like the remnants of the series are still whispering in my ear, reminding me of what we’ve been through together.

But that’s part of the artist’s life, isn’t it? Saying goodbye to one canvas to embrace another. We’re constantly living in this strange in-between space—one foot in the past project, the other tentatively stepping forward into the unknown. It’s a balancing act, and I’m still figuring out how to do it without falling on my face. (Spoiler: I haven’t mastered it yet.)

Right now, I’m savoring this bittersweet moment. It’s a brief pause between breaths, a lull before diving headfirst into what comes next. A chance to reflect on what I’ve just created and gather my strength for the next round. Because, even though the series is “done,” there’s always more to come. More to explore, more to discover. And that, ultimately, is what keeps me moving forward.

So, I’m letting this series go. Wishing it well as it makes its way to Shanghai. Hoping it will resonate with those who see it, provoke questions, stir emotions, maybe even inspire a few conversations. And as for me? I’ll be here, in the studio, staring at a new blank canvas (judgmental as ever), trying to figure out what it wants to say.  

It’s never really over. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, here’s the big news: I’m officially a represented artist at Caelis Gallery in Shanghai!

This collaboration is one of those things that just clicks . I’ve been following Caelis for a while now—drawn to their fearless curation and their knack for choosing work that leaves you thinking (sometimes way longer than you’d planned to). They don’t just showcase art; they spark conversations. Maybe even arguments. Definitely a few late-night debates.

And that’s what excites me most. Caelis feels like the perfect place to push the boundaries of my own work. I’m ready to create pieces that go deeper, that wrestle with the questions I haven’t dared to ask yet (not without a glass of wine, anyway).

And then there’s Shanghai—a city that practically vibrates with possibility. Tradition and future, history and reinvention, all stacked together like a house of cards that somehow holds. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to dig in and stay a while (or never leave).

This partnership is more than just representation. It’s an invitation to explore new paths, make some noise, and see what happens next.

Ready? Because I am.

The blank canvas stares at me. Every. Single. Time. (And I stare back, pretending I’m fine.)

You’d think after decades of painting, this would get easier. But no. Every time I face that white surface, I freeze. It’s like a huge, silent wall.

The strange thing is, the painting is already in my head. I can see it clearly.

But the moment I see that clean, untouched canvas, everything stops.

My mind starts whispering, What if you ruin it? What if it’s not as good as you imagine?

And just like that, I’m stuck.

The Perfection Trap (And My Weird Relationship with Imperfection)

Here’s the truth: I get stuck because of perfection. (Yes, I know I’m constantly nagging you all about embracing imperfection, but let’s ignore that for a second.)

When I look at that white canvas, I see perfect potential.

It’s pure.

It’s untouched.

And as soon as I put my brush on it, that perfection is gone.

Every stroke I make takes it further away from what could have been and closer to what it is.

And while I know that imperfection is where the beauty is—where the real magic happens—my brain still shouts, Don’t mess this up!

This is especially funny because I love imperfection.

I really do.

The drips of paint, the accidental brushstrokes, unearthly color combinations.

This is the stuff that makes the painting one of my paintings.

But standing in front of a blank canvas, all I can think is: Don’t screw it up.

My Procrastination Masterclass

So, what do I do? I procrastinate. Like a pro. (Seriously, I’ve turned it into an art form.)

Instead of painting, I’ll clean my brushes. Then, I’ll organize my paints. Then I’ll make a cup of coffee. Then I’ll check Instagram.

Anything to delay that first brushstroke. Because once I start, I’m committed. No turning back. 

Sometimes, I’ll even prepare another canvas to paint on later. (Because clearly, one canvas I’m afraid to paint on isn’t enough.)

The First Stroke (And Why I Always Overthink It)

But here’s the thing: once I finally make the first mark, it gets easier.

Every time.

That first stroke feels like jumping off a cliff (ok, ok, maybe off a ladder), but once it’s done, I can breathe again.

The canvas stops being an enemy and becomes something I can work with. Suddenly, I’m not as scared of ruining it anymore.

I start to enjoy it. 

And that’s when the fun begins.

The imperfections that I was so afraid of? They become my favorite part. A line that goes off? That’s interesting. A color I didn’t plan? That adds character.

It’s in these moments where the painting becomes something real. Something human.

Why It Never Gets Easier

So why doesn’t it ever get easier? Why, after all these years, do I still freeze in front of a blank canvas?

Because every new painting is a new risk. No matter how many I’ve done, every blank canvas is a new chance to fail (or succeed).

What worked last time might not work this time. There’s no formula. No guarantees. And that’s scary. But it’s also exciting. (Mostly scary though.)

Embracing the Fear

So, I’ve learned to live with the fear (ain’t this getting a little dramatic?). Or at least, tolerate it.

I know that procrastination, fear, and second-guessing are just part of my process. It’s how my brain gets ready to dive in.

Without that fear, the painting wouldn’t feel as important. The blank canvas wouldn’t feel like such a challenge. And, weirdly, I wouldn’t be as invested in it.

And in the end, that’s what keeps me coming back.

The fear, the uncertainty, the possibility of failure—they make the final painting worth it.

Every time I get lost in the mess, every time something doesn’t go as planned—that’s where the magic happens.

That’s where the real beauty is.

So, the next time I’m face-to-face with a fresh, white canvas, maybe I’ll remember that. (well, I’ll actually just procrastinate again. We’ll see.)

I devoured Sonia Borrell’s book Art In Real-Time in one day.

Cover to cover. No breaks. (Okay, maybe one coffee break, but still.)

This isn’t your typical art book. No, it’s vibrant, intimate, and shockingly useful. It’s like Sonia took all the dusty, complicated stuff about art and tossed it out the window, replacing it with real conversations. Conversations that actually mean something. 

Sonia’s love for art? Oh, it leaps off the pages. You can almost feel it in your hands. Her words paint a story—a love story with art that started when she was a kid. The kind of passion that grabs you and won’t let go. It’s simple, it’s warm, and it’s powerful.

It’s personal too. A beautiful story, really. But also… a manual.

Yes, despite its personal tone, this book works as a manual for art collectors. But here’s the kicker—Sonia didn’t just write it for collectors. Artists, gallerists, art dealers, or even just someone who loves a good painting on their wall (who doesn’t?)—we all stand to benefit from this book. It’s packed with her wealth of experience. 

And when I say packed, I mean packed. She spills the tea on the entire art world—everyone from the artists to the gallerists to the buyers. 

It’s like a backstage pass to the art world’s inner workings.

What’s great is that it’s not just Sonia’s voice. Nope. She’s got her friends—artists, collectors, gallery owners, and even her son—chiming in. (Yes, it’s a family affair.) They each take a chapter, sharing their stories and lessons, unraveling the mysteries of the art world. And trust me, they’ve got stories. 

It’s like reading a guidebook with heart. Each chapter is a little art-world lesson wrapped up in a meaningful story. You get a front-row seat to the inner workings of the art market (without getting any auction sweat on you). 

Sonia, bless her, is like the conductor of this artistic symphony. She directs it all, and every note she plays gives you a peek behind the curtain. She talks about how to deal with galleries, whether you’re an artist or a collector (spoiler: it involves charm and strategy). 

Oh, and don’t miss the hilarious story about the Swiss first-time collector who had to navigate the joys of Swiss customs. It’s a gem. One of those “you can’t make this stuff up” moments.

So, yeah. If you want to understand the art world, avoid the traps (yes, there are traps), and feel like you’re chatting with a friend over coffee, Art In Real-Time is the book. Sonia’s book is that rare mix of practical and personal, and you won’t walk away without a few lessons—and maybe a few laughs too.