Slow Art

On Slow Art

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to create slowly.

We live in a world that values speed—fast results, fast content, fast success. But art doesn’t always work that way. At least not the kind of art I want to make. The kind I need to make.

For me, painting is not just about producing an image. It’s about returning to a quiet rhythm. It’s about noticing the way light falls on a field, or how a color feels when it settles into paper. It’s about stepping back between layers, letting something dry, letting myself think.

There’s honesty in that kind of pace.

There’s also trust.

Trusting that even without a tight deadline or a flurry of output, the work is still growing.

That meaning can emerge—not from rushing—but from staying.

What Slow Art Looks Like

Sometimes, slow art is visible in the final painting: a soft edge that couldn’t be rushed. A color mixed just right because I waited. A subject that feels gentle and whole.

But sometimes, it’s not visible at all. It’s in the weeks spent wondering what I’m really trying to say. Or in letting myself paint something light-hearted in between deeper work. Or in choosing not to share everything I make.

Why I Choose This Pace

I’m not trying to keep up. I’m trying to stay connected.

To myself, to what matters, to what feels real in this moment.

Making art slowly doesn’t mean working less—it means working more attentively, more intentionally. It’s about honoring process over pressure.

And that, to me, is where the joy is.