5 Comments

  1. Dorothy Berry-Lound
    9 December 2022 @ 1:58 pm

    A very interesting and thought provoking article. I really relate to the idea of the intuitive, mindful process. Being prepared to let go and let it all flow from you is the hardest part, we put so many mental obstacles in our way, but if you can release and let go it is a wonderful experience.

    Reply

    • Suhail
      9 December 2022 @ 2:24 pm

      Thank you, Dorothy and I appreciate your comment. I haven’t written anything new or something that most of us are not aware of. We are just too busy to take a break and think about ourselves. I’m glad you enjoyed the article.

      Reply

  2. Don Cheke
    24 May 2025 @ 2:03 am

    This reply might have been more apt over a face-to-face visit in a coffee house, but alas, we are an ocean apart, and then some. 😊

    Do you think what I do is intuitive art, as seen below? Based on what I read in your article I think that it must be.

    I typically start by selecting a small palette of color. I open a digital canvas and start experimenting with brushes and strokes and applying color on a sometimes random, sometimes linear basis. Occasionally I can see something start to appear or move me in a specific direction, while still remaining mostly random. Sometimes it is only near or at the end that I realize the meaning behind what has appeared. Sometimes at the end, when I know what the painting is saying, I add a component to try and drive the point(s) home. Hopefully that makes sense.

    I feel pretty confident in my recovery and what I have learned on my journey but I know that one can always try or learn something new.

    I am interested in trying to see what I feel at a specific time and seeing if that sends me in a different direction than how I usually approach my art. Currently, my approach is just something I start to spend time with in my creative pursuits. It’s like deciding to paint, as opposed to watching TV. I quickly move into it and it becomes almost a meditation, or speculative time. What I sense from what you are saying is that I could let the emotions themselves lead the way. That troubles me a bit because I think how do I paint the mixed bag of feelings, how do I define or paint something that seems so ethereal? Let’s say I am moved to tears, or angry as ever, or sad and lonely. How does that start to appear, how does one even begin?

    I started my journey into recovery over 40 years ago in Al-Anon and expanded to many dimensions through the years. I have often wondered what folks who don’t belong to such a program can do to find a happier and healthier life. I know that there is counselling, and although that is great, it typically doesn’t offer what a life dedicated to the journey does. While reading this blog post with regards to all the numbered things (i.e. 1 connecting with your intuition, 2 letting go, etc.), I thought that yes, creating art must surely be one of those heathy routes folks can take. Through my journey, reading hordes of non-fiction books in the fields of psychology and psychoanalysis, etc., allowed me to learn so much. I feel that you must have some depth that allows you to dig deep while you paint. What else have you done, which allows you to have your depth and which allows it to come out in your art? Do you think someone can just approach art and all that other stuff will find its way to the canvas and to the soul, as it were? Or do they have to start a deeper journey on top of the art?

    You said near the end, “Many people use the process as a habit just to unwind and de-stress.” That is me in a nutshell when it comes to art. I often like to do quick art, meaning it can be done in an evening, or even less. I call the rewards of this, a creative high. Like you, I like to go back over my past art and revisit what my feeling were, and other things as well.

    Feel free to delete this portion of the comment if it is not appropriate for what you will allow comment-wise.
    I don’t know if you ever read The Courage to Create by Rollo May. I wrote a blog post with the same title on March 10, 2025. Rollo May has so many things to say that I hear in your writing. I include a number of quotes. Some of the quotes talk about Alberto Giocometti and one of his sitters. I include that too. I just feel that you would relate to much of what he says.

    Reply

    • Suhail
      25 May 2025 @ 10:00 am

      Great comment, Don. You raise so many interesting and deep discussions. Ready for a long reply?

      What you describe sounds very much like intuitive art to me. That process of starting with colours, letting brushes and strokes guide you, following where the art wants to go, that’s exactly it. The fact that meaning sometimes only emerges at the end tells me you’re trusting the process rather than forcing it.

      “What else have you done, which allows you to have your depth and which allows it to come out in your art?”

      Great question, Don.

      I spent years making traditional paintings and doing photography. They were amazing for a while, but eventually they stopped fulfilling something I needed. That’s when my quest began about 35 years ago and it’s still ongoing. The question that drives me is: “Can I actually paint my feelings with my feelings?”

      I wrote about this briefly in another blog post (Painting Your Feelings) that’s linked in this one, which you’ve already read.
      What I’m about to share isn’t scientifically proven 😊, but I believe it helps me go deeper:

      First, I put together a long playlist of songs and music I loved from childhood up to 1990. I listen to this with earphones before I start painting and keep it playing throughout. That initial preparation used to take much longer, but now the shift happens almost as soon as I press play. The music serves two purposes, a) it prepares the mood and b) cuts out distractions. It sets the scene for the creative process.

      Second, I hold “a strong intention” to connect deeper within. Sometimes it works quickly, sometimes it takes a while and sometimes there’s no connection at all. How do I know if I’ve connected? It’s in whether I continue painting seamlessly or how often I stop or maybe stop completely, unable to continue.

      Those two things, the music and the intention are probably the main forces in my creative process.

      Have I been successful in my quest? I guess the answer is “I’ll never know!” And the quest continues.

      About your question on painting emotions, you asked how to paint that mixed bag of feelings, how to begin when you’re moved to tears or angry or lonely. I think you just begin. You don’t paint the emotion, you paint from the emotion. Let it move through you onto the canvas. Trust that whatever comes out is right.

      I’ve never come across Rollo May or Alberto Giacometti. I’ll definitely check out your blog post.

      Speaking of intuitive art, here’s a little story that might explain my thoughts about it. The explanation is probably only halfway through the story, intuitive art doesn’t need to have such an ending.

      Title: The Canvas That Disappeared

      Three of us get together every few weeks. Nothing formal, just coffee and whatever’s on our minds. I’ll call the other two Mike and John. They’re not as deep into art as I am, but they may appreciate art as decorative pieces.

      One evening the conversation drifted to my abstract painting. They were polite about it but I knew abstract art was foreign to them.

      “I just don’t get it,” Mike said with a shrug. “What am I supposed to see?”

      Instead of explaining, I invited them over to my studio.

      They showed up a few days later, looking slightly uncomfortable among my canvases and paint tubes. I pulled out a large blank canvas and pinned it to my MDF painting board.

      “Roll up your sleeves,” I said.

      They exchanged glances. “What exactly are we supposed to do?” Mike asked.

      I grabbed a wide brush, dipped it in blue paint and made two bold strokes across the canvas. “That’s it. Just do whatever feels right for you.”

      John went first, tentatively dabbing at the canvas. “Is this okay?” he kept asking.

      “There’s no wrong way,” I told him. “It’s your painting.”

      Something shifted after the first hour. They stopped asking for permission and started playing. Mike was mixing colours I’d never thought to combine. John was using his fingers alongside the brushes. They forgot I was there.

      I settled into my chair and watched them work for nearly three hours. They were completely absorbed, laughing at happy accidents, building on each other’s marks. When they finally stepped back, they stared at what they’d created like they couldn’t quite believe it.

      “We actually made this,” Mike said softly.

      Two weeks later, Mike called. Could he come back and work on that same painting? I was surprised but said sure.

      When he arrived, something was different about him. He walked straight to the canvas without small talk and picked up a large brush. This time his movements were urgent, almost violent. His whole arm swung with each stroke, paint flying. I’d never seen him so focused, so driven.

      After an hour, his shirt was soaked with sweat but he kept going. Then suddenly he stopped mid-stroke and began to cry. Deep, quiet sobs that shook his shoulders. He sank to his knees in front of the canvas.

      When he finally stood up, he looked directly at me. “I feel better now,” he said simply.

      Before he left, he asked if he could buy the painting. I told him it wasn’t mine to sell, he’d done most of the work. He was welcome to take it.

      A month later I ran into Mike in the town centre. “How’s the painting?” I asked.

      He hesitated slightly. “I cut it up and threw it away”.

      I couldn’t hide my shock. “Why would you do that?”

      He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Somehow, I felt I was painting things I needed to get rid of. Things from way back that I didn’t want looking at me every day.”

      I stood there with a dozen questions I knew I’d never ask. And I never did.

      Reply

  3. Don Cheke
    25 May 2025 @ 4:53 pm

    What a lovely story about your experience with Mike, it brought tears to my eyes. That Mike could allow himself to participate in the art, and then later, obviously, sitting and thinking about it, wanting to come back and add those feelings that had been stirred. I was surprised that he later destroyed the piece, but I totally get that – a cathartic experience to deal with the baggage, now washed away. I have done something similar, not with art but with “items” kept from the past, burning or throwing them away to symbolize the move to healing, or leaving the hurtful past behind. I also thought about Buddhist Mandalas as I read your story, where they create these beautiful symbolic pieces, only to sweep them away later. Typically, this is to experience impermanence, but I think it is also to do exactly what I think Mike was trying to do. It makes me think that Mike had a spiritual awaking as a result of this experience. I wonder if Mike will continue with art in his own way moving forward from here. Whatever the case, he has certainly experienced it now, and I bet he has a better understanding of you as well.

    Thank you for sharing your process too. Seeing how others approach art, and life, is always beneficial.

    When answering my question about emotions, I like how you said that paint from the emotions, not the emotions themselves. That makes sense. I think I will have to reread Painting Your Feelings, just to get a refresher.

    Reply

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