Confessionalism | How Writing Changed My Art Forever
Writing a letter to my father over a portrait of us was one of those moments where everything changed.
It opened my mind to all these new possibilities of what my art could be.
One of the reasons I fell in love with art was because of the experiences I had looking at it. Those moments where I knew I could never be the same person after seeing a particular painting, hearing a particular song, or reading the right sentence at exactly the right time.
I started saying,
"You can't change people, but people can change, and art is one of the greatest catalysts for change."
Whether it's painting, music, or writing, those moments where we're alone with another person who somehow understands exactly what we're feeling can change us.
Maybe it's ego that drives me to make my own work.
Or maybe it's hope.
The hope that I might give someone one of those moments.
A quiet conversation where they feel understood for the first time.
Or where they realize that even though our lives are different, our struggles often aren't.
That we don't have to feel so alone.
After that portrait I knew writing was going to become an important part of my work.
Every painting began with a sort of diary entry.
For a lot of beginning artists, the hardest part is making that first mark.
Writing became my way of destroying the preciousness of the blank page.
Once the page wasn't perfect anymore, I could work.
This happened at a time when I was obsessed with truth.
I had grown up in a church that cared deeply about how we presented ourselves on the surface, but often seemed less interested in the struggles hidden underneath.
I wanted to make work that couldn't hide.
So I started a series I called Confessionalism.
At first I wrote these brutally honest journal entries and painted abstract imagery over them.
The words disappeared beneath the paint.
Which, looking back, feels strangely symbolic.
But I was also angry.
I felt like there were people who didn't deserve my truth because they were lying to themselves.
So instead of inviting people in...
I started pushing them away.
The paintings became graphic nudes.
I loved asking the question:
What's more naked?
The body?
Or the words?
To me the writing was always more vulnerable.
The nudity was almost a distraction.
A test.
If someone was willing to look past the body, maybe they'd earn the right to read the words beneath it.
Somewhere along the way, a friend told me he genuinely loved the work.
But there was no way he could hang it in his home because he had kids.
It wasn't criticism.
It was a truth I wasn't prepared for.
As artists, I think one of our biggest jobs is finding ways to relate to people.
You can't do that very well if you're intentionally pushing everyone away.
I don't regret making those paintings.
I had to make them.
Failure teaches us things success never can.
Confessionalism taught me that words could transform a painting.
But it also taught me something even more important.
Words can push people away just as easily as they can draw them in.
Lately I've found myself thinking about that series again.
If I started it today, I think it would look completely different.
I'd probably paint myself instead of anonymous figures.
I'd still ask what it means to be truly naked.
But I don't think I'd rely on confrontation anymore.
I'd rely on honesty.
The words never disappeared.
Only my reason for using them changed.
Looking back, I can see that Confessionalism wasn't simply one painting series among many.
It was the moment I stopped thinking of words as something I added to paintings and started thinking of them as one of the materials I painted with.
Those words eventually found their way into my word portraits. But instead of confronting people with what I thought was the truth, I started using them to share stories.
To preserve legacies.
To invite people into the conversation instead of testing whether they deserve to be there.
I guess I'm just not so angry anymore.
I want my work to help people.
Not hurt them.