The 'Backless-Dress' Gremlin

The Art of Knowing When to Begin, When to Stop… and When to Reveal

Feb 16, 2025

Hey Gremlins,

I’m writing to you from Ibiza, deep in the process of creating new work, wrapping up pieces for my next show, and preparing for my New York residency next week.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about process—when to begin, when to keep going, and when to stop. The truth is, we don’t always know. Sometimes, a painting tells you. Other times, you just decide. But the art isn’t just in the final image—it’s in the making of it. The messy, human, soul-infused process. The hours of layering, adjusting, shifting. That’s why I’ve been sharing more behind-the-scenes videos on Instagram—anything from 15-second edits to five-minute lives. Because the process is what lifts me, the thing that keeps me going.

But here’s the paradox: while I love the making, the finished piece still holds a power of its own. It becomes a portal—a physical imprint of something intangible.

When to Start: No One Really Cares—Just Begin

We overestimate how much people are watching us. The Spotlight Effect tricks us into thinking everyone is noticing every move we make when, really, they’re wrapped up in their own world, their own distractions.

And that’s liberating.

You don’t need to wait for perfect conditions, the perfect plan, or the perfect version of yourself. Just start. Post the work. Make the move. Launch the idea. The world isn’t sitting around waiting to judge you—it’s moving. You’ll grow in motion.

When to Work: Paintings Are Portals

A painting isn’t just an object—it’s a doorway into a specific time code, a frequency waiting to be unlocked.

It’s not just the colour red that holds meaning—that would be like saying flour is the essence of a lemon cake. No, it’s the alchemy—the weight of each pigment, the way they fuse together in a particular moment, with a particular energy, under a particular hand. That’s what creates the final piece.

Like music, a painting is a vibration, a time capsule. You hear a song, and suddenly you’re back in a memory, or projected into a feeling you haven’t lived yet. The same is true for art. The frequency of a painting isn’t just visual—it’s emotional. That’s why certain pieces move you, stop you in your tracks, stay with you. Because feelings are frequencies.

And when those frequencies pass through the tuning fork of our bones, our DNA, our individual histories, they resonate differently for everyone. That’s the magic of it.

When to Keep Going: Flow vs. Consumption

As I’ve been creating in Ibiza, I’ve noticed the usual waves of resistance and surrender—the push and pull of starting again, setting up, making space. But the moment I begin, flow kicks in. And that’s how I know I’m in the right place.

Lately, I’ve been paying attention to what gives life and what takes it away.

Flow states—when I’m painting, moving, creating—give life. They generate energy. They expand time. They lift me into something beyond myself.

The opposite isn’t just numbness—it’s consumption. Scrolling, overthinking, sitting in the in-between. It drains, it contracts, it makes time feel like it’s slipping away.

The difference? One makes you forget yourself in the best way. The other makes you disappear.

And that’s why creating will always matter. Because it’s active. It’s alive. It’s a conversation.

When to Stop: Knowing When It’s Done

You just know.

But no—you don’t.

You know when you don’t want to add anything else, but you also don’t want to take anything away. I always leave parts raw. I like my work to feel imperfect, to hold something unfinished. Like a beautiful woman in a backless dress—the moment where you catch a glimpse of skin underneath. I love a raw brushstroke to be that moment.

It’s about balance—knowing what to refine and what to leave untouched.

I know a painting is finished when, to be honest, I’m content with it, and I trust it to stand on its own—without me. Like a child you teach to walk. At some point, you just let go.

And maybe that’s the real art—knowing when to begin, knowing when to keep going, and knowing when to stop. And trusting that in between, something real has happened.