It's funny how a piece of art can evolve over time — and how much of you ends up in it.
When I started this piece, my vision was clear: lots of texture, with pinks, purples, yellows, and a touch of white. But I came back to this same painting three separate times over the span of two weeks, and each time I was in a completely different headspace.
Day one, I was excited and energized. I had an upbeat playlist going in the background, and this is where I ended up:
I loved how the pinks and yellows were blending together. My plan was to let it dry and add more of the same. But when I returned about a week later, I was in a very different place mentally. It had been a really rough day, and I was feeling down. I went back to the painting because I tend to lose myself in thought when I paint — and sometimes that's exactly what I need.
I started mixing my colors and made the purple much darker. Almost black. I left only a little of the pink and yellow peeking through. By the end of that session, this is what it looked like:
Looking back, I actually really love this version too. But in the moment, I wanted to let it dry and revisit it when I was in a better place.
A few days later, with a much lighter mood, I went back — and took it in an entirely different direction. I painted over the whole piece. The texture was still there underneath, but I shifted to teals and white, going very abstract. This time I used a palette knife instead of a brush, which felt freeing. In the end, I'm happy with how the final piece turned out. And if you look closely, I left a little of that second, darker version peeking through — a quiet reminder of the hard day that shaped it.
That's the beauty of art. You can create in any mood — joyful, heavy, somewhere in between — and the painting absorbs all of it. That's what I love most about it. Art has a way of healing, and it's one of the most honest outlets I know.
Do you find that you resonate with this? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.