Thick paint suited me from the beginning.
That was the simple truth before any philosophy arrived.
But after climbing out of depression,
thickness stopped being a preference
and became a way to stay alive.
For a long time I worried about practicality—
storage, weight, how the work would be handled,
whether the “right” method was more polite to the world.
After remission, those restraints fell away.
Only then could I finally touch the thickness that felt honest.
If I want to build, I build.
If something interferes, I discard it.
I no longer paint for the sake of manageability.
That was when I reached a surface I could finally call my own.
Humans are difficult to handle.
Emotions, distance, habits—
nothing about us is smooth.
A painting that’s too polished
drifts away from how people actually exist.
The weight, the resistance, the clumsiness—
these are closer to the human condition
than any perfectly controlled line.
