The How, the What, the Why: inhabiting Lost edges

Introduction

Coming from a structured, rational background, I initially approached creation through an analytical lens.

Painting felt like a series of problems to solve.

Over time, my practice shifted.

It became a more complex conversation —

an unstable balance between three questions that constantly intertwine:

the how, the what, and the why.

The how — the anchor

The how came naturally: understanding, breaking things down, mastering.

It might seem superficial to focus so much on technique, but for me, it is a fundamental tool. It’s what allows me to work with freedom. Without this foundation, I quickly feel adrift.

The how gives me clear reference points.

It is reassuring, measurable, solid.

But the how cannot carry everything.

On its own, it doesn’t express what is trying to emerge.

The what — the vessel

Then comes the question of the what.

What will I represent? A landscape, an animal, a still life?

If the how is the tool, the what is the vessel.

Choosing a subject means deciding where I place my gaze.

I notice that I sometimes struggle to decide.

Each choice affirms something, but also leaves something else aside.

Over time, I’ve come to understand that a subject, no matter how precise, is not always enough.

It can be carefully constructed, controlled — and still feel empty.

It needs to be inhabited.

The why — nuances

The why is the space where I stop searching for certainty.

It resists being fully grasped.

It can be sensed without being fixed.

It shifts, evolves, sometimes even within a single work.

Rather than forcing it, I try to accompany it —

to remain attentive, present to its movements,

open to what it transforms along the way.

In my work, I often return to this in-between space:

where light and darkness coexist,

where meaning is not always defined, but never absent.

I’m not always comfortable there.

But it is within this shifting zone that I find the substance needed to give my work depth.

Conclusion

These three questions are never fully resolved.

They remain in tension, constantly moving and rebalancing.

There are days when technique reassures me,

and others when meaning feels out of reach.

I am not writing these lines to offer a method or a final balance.

I write to leave a trace of this search —

and perhaps to open a space where others might recognize themselves.

For me, creating means learning to navigate without a precise map.

Accepting that blur is not a problem to solve,

but a place to inhabit.