There’s something strange that happens when I revisit old work.
It feels like stepping back in time—tuning into an echo of consciousness.
At first, it feels technical.
I notice areas I would change. Colors I would soften. Shapes I might redefine.
I start thinking in terms of improvement.
But if I stay with it long enough, something shifts.
It stops being about fixing.
Recently, I’ve been reworking a couple of paintings I started over 15 years ago.
At first, I approached them like I would anything else—thinking about composition, balance, what I’ve learned since then.
But the longer I sat with them, the more I realized…
That version of me is still present.
Not just in the marks—but in the decisions, the hesitations, the way the piece was built layer by layer without fully knowing why.
And instead of correcting them, I found myself listening.
The last time I touched these paintings, I can’t remember exactly when.
Life was happening. I was working at Vanderbilt.
The medical world exposed me to imagery and the inner workings of the human body in a way I hadn’t understood before. Not that I fully understand it now—but I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for what exists beneath the surface. The body. The mind.
Looking at these works now, I also see something else—I’ve grown into a place where I feel more confident sharing them.
There’s often a tendency to look at older work and see it as unfinished or unresolved.
Something we’ve outgrown.
But I don’t think that’s entirely true.
Older work holds a kind of honesty that newer work sometimes filters out.
It carries the rawness of where we were—before we had the language, the experience, or the confidence to explain it.
And when we return to it, we’re not just bringing new skill.
We’re bringing awareness.
Reworking a piece like this becomes a quiet dialogue.
Between who I was then…
and who I am now.
There are moments where I want to cover something completely.
And there are moments where I stop myself—because that layer, even if imperfect, holds something real.
Something that doesn’t need to be erased to be valid.
I’ve noticed that when I approach the work with the intention to “fix,” I become more rigid.
More critical.
More focused on outcome.
But when I approach it with curiosity, something opens.
The process becomes less about control…
and more about connection.
There’s also something that surprised me.
Some of the marks I’m making now… feel very familiar.
Almost like muscle memory.
And it made me realize that the way I create hasn’t changed as much as I thought.
It’s deepened.
It’s softened.
But the core of it—the instinct to express what I couldn’t always say—has always been there.
So I’m letting these pieces unfold slowly.
Not rushing to finish them.
Not forcing them into something new.
Just allowing space for both versions of myself to exist on the same surface.
Because maybe that’s what this really is—
Not a correction.
But a continuation.
