Painting is, in many ways, a pointless thing. It doesn’t solve problems, it doesn’t feed people, it doesn’t keep the world running. And yet, in the act of doing something so seemingly unnecessary, you find yourself in situations that teach you everything about who you are. It forces you to observe, to slow down, to be patient. It humbles you when things don’t work, when what’s in your mind refuses to take form. It teaches you discipline, resilience, and acceptance.
I think about the story of the Japanese master calligrapher who, after years of training, was asked to paint a perfect circle in a single brushstroke. He tried again and again, each time adjusting, correcting, perfecting—but none were truly alive. Then, one day, he let go. He moved without hesitation, and the circle appeared—effortless, complete. That’s the paradox of painting. You begin believing it’s about control, about imposing your will on a canvas. But the more you do it, the more you realize it’s about surrender. In something so pointless, you discover the most essential things: patience, humility, the ability to see clearly without forcing. And maybe that’s the point.
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