Lately, I’ve been painting in the in-between.

Not quite realism, not quite abstraction—just this slippery middle space where instinct takes over, and the brush tells me things my eyes don't always see.

It’s not where I expected to land when I started painting seriously again. At first, I thought I’d chase realism—the delicate light across a dune, the roll of clouds over the marsh, the sea oats swaying in salt air. And for a while, I did. Paintings like Afternoon on the Dunes (pictured on my easel) reflect that approach: representational, layered, anchored in place. I loved the challenge of capturing those moments with care and accuracy. It felt like a tribute to the beauty around me.

But something shifted.

The more time I spent with brush in hand, the more I felt the pull to let go. To blur the edges. To stop describing the landscape and start interpreting it. Not what it looks like, but what it feels like to be there.

That’s how the second painting emerged—more texture, more movement, less concern for precision. The clouds are thicker, the strokes more expressive. I was thinking less about perspective and more about presence. The result isn’t a postcard-perfect view, but something more personal: a record of the rhythm I felt that day, standing near the sea with the wind whipping through the grasses.

And then there’s the third piece—my quiet rebellion. A butterfly resting on a wedge of orange. Surreal, slightly symbolic, and completely unexpected. It’s grounded in the same landscape, but now the horizon fades into mood and memory. It’s a painting that asks more than it answers, and for once, I’m okay with that.

The tension between representational and abstract painting is a space I find myself returning to again and again. It challenges me. It invites risk. And maybe, most importantly, it makes room for emotion to slip in—where color choices aren’t always logical, and brushstrokes carry more weight than outlines.

I haven’t abandoned realism, but I no longer feel bound to it. I'm learning that painting isn’t about arriving at a style—it’s about showing up, again and again, willing to be surprised by where the work takes you.

So I’ll keep listening. To the marsh, to the wind, to the quiet voice inside that sometimes says, "Let it be messier. Let it be more