For over 20 years, I’ve been immersed in design, tracing lines, exploring shapes, and studying the art of beauty. It’s a journey that began with pencils and paper, grew with the digital revolution, and continues to evolve today. Yet, after all this time, I pause to ask: What is beauty? Is it a tangible thing, a feeling, or an idea? It’s a question with infinite answers, each shaped by personal experience, time, and culture.
I’ve always wanted to leave a mark and improve the world, but not in the ways society typically associates with helping. I’m not a nurse, tending to the sick, nor a social worker, mending broken systems. My role feels subtler and less immediate. My work is about dreams—helping others turn their ideas into something real, something they can touch, share, or build upon. It’s an act of service in its own way, and I strive to give it my all, pouring my skills and heart into crafting their vision. Yet, even so, I sometimes wonder: Is it enough?
I think about artists like Chuck Close, who once said, “Inspiration is for amateurs—the rest of us just show up and get to work.” His methodical approach to creating portraits, breaking them into thousands of tiny, precise grids of colour, has always fascinated me. Close’s work feels like a meditation on systems—on the relationship between the individual parts and the whole. Each square of his canvas is its own tiny universe, and yet, when you step back, all those pieces merge into something deeply human, something undeniably beautiful.
Close’s process resonates with the world we live in now, a world increasingly shaped by systems and technology. His grids remind me of pixels, algorithms, and how machine learning builds images today—layer by layer, calculation by calculation. In a way, Close’s work was a precursor to this digital age, showing how beauty can emerge from order, repetition, and structure.
I remember the early 2000s when I believed beauty could be found in math. I was captivated by the golden ratio and Fibonacci spirals, convinced there was a formula to unlock universal beauty. But my search always fell short. I could never quite capture the essence I sought—it felt like trying to hold water in my hands.
With AI and machine learning creating images at lightning speed, I wonder if the answers I sought back then are closer than ever. Could algorithms effortlessly render the forms and lines I once struggled to perfect now? Could machines interpret beauty better than I ever could? Or would their creations lack the imperfections—the human touch—that give art its soul?
This is a question for me and all creators, especially in painting. From Chuck Close’s meticulous grids to the abstract systems of Mondrian, painters have long explored the balance between art and science, intuition and method. The tools we use today—AI, generative algorithms, and neural networks—are the next evolution of this age-old conversation. They are tools, just like brushes and palettes. But their capabilities raise new questions: Are they collaborators or competitors? Do they enhance our vision, or do they replace it?
For me, the thought is both thrilling and unsettling. What if I embraced these tools and let them collaborate with me? What if I asked them to take my sketches and half-formed ideas and push them further? Could they help me see beauty in ways I never imagined? Or would I discover that what makes art meaningful isn’t the precision of the result but the struggle and intention behind it?
Maybe this is my new frontier—not to compete with machines but to work alongside them. We need to see if we can uncover something deeper about beauty, something that bridges the gap between humanity and technology. Like Close’s portraits, perhaps beauty lies in the process, in the interplay between order and imperfection.
And so, with curiosity and a little trepidation, I step into this next chapter. Let’s see where it leads.
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