Creating Art in a Noisy World: Finding Silence Within
We live in a time of relentless input.
The pings of notifications, the pressure to produce, the endless scroll of curated images and polished thoughts.
As an artist, this noise doesn’t just surround me — it tries to seep into the quietest corners of my studio.
But art, especially abstract art, is born from stillness.
It’s not built to thrive under pressure or performance.
It needs space. Breath. Time.
At EMP, silence is not just a mood. It’s a method.
This blog is a reflection on how I return to silence to create honest work in a world that never stops talking — and why that silence is sacred.
The Cost of a Constant Feed
We are more connected than ever, yet often more disconnected from ourselves.
Every scroll brings another image, another opinion, another subtle invitation to compare.
For artists, this can become a creative trap:
We begin to question what we’re making
We chase trends instead of truth
We shape our work around visibility instead of vulnerability
In the early days of EMP, I found myself caught in this loop.
I’d finish a piece and immediately wonder how it would perform — instead of pausing to ask how it made me feel.
The result? I lost the thread.
I stopped hearing myself.
And when I did finally stop to listen, the silence was deafening.
That silence became the beginning of something real.
What Silence Really Means
When I talk about silence, I don’t mean the absence of sound — I mean the presence of stillness.
A slowing down of thought, expectation, and demand.
A return to the self that exists underneath all the noise.
Silence is where feeling lives before it has words.
It’s where intuition stirs before a brush ever moves.
It’s where I meet the version of myself that isn’t trying to be seen — only to see.
At EMP, that’s the space I try to create for myself, and for anyone who engages with the work.
A space where you don’t have to explain yourself.
Where being with something is enough.
Creating a Studio That Protects Stillness
In a noisy world, stillness isn’t passive — it’s a practice.
I’ve shaped my studio to support that quiet, intentionally.
Here’s what that looks like in real time:
I often begin each session in silence, with no music, no phone, no plan
I work with natural light whenever possible, letting the sun signal pace and time
I keep objects and tools minimal — not out of aesthetic, but to limit distraction
I set boundaries around when I share work — not everything needs to be seen while it’s still becoming
These aren’t rules. They’re invitations.
Each one helps me return to presence — the space where my real work begins.
Why the Best Work Can’t Be Rushed
There’s a rhythm to true creation, and it almost never aligns with external pressure.
A painting doesn’t finish because the world asks for it — it finishes when it’s ready.
Sometimes that’s days. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes years.
And that’s okay.
Because the pieces that mean the most — to me and to others — are the ones that came from presence, not panic.
At EMP, I’ve come to believe that pacing is part of the piece.
The slowness shows up in the layers.
The time spent listening shows up in the silence between strokes.
That’s why I protect the process.
Because I’ve seen what happens when it’s honored — and when it’s rushed.
Listening to the Work
Creating in silence also allows me to listen — not to the outside world, but to the work itself.
Each piece has its own timing. Its own texture. Its own quiet voice.
Some ask to be bold. Others want to stay subtle.
Some need to be painted over entirely — not because they’re wrong, but because they were a necessary part of the unfolding.
This listening isn’t easy.
It requires humility.
Patience.
A willingness to start again.
But in that listening, I’ve found my truest work.
And the more I honor the silence, the more the work speaks for itself.
Silence in the Viewer’s Experience
The power of silence doesn’t end in the studio — it extends into the viewer’s experience as well.
Abstract art offers no instructions.
No explanation.
Only space.
And in that space, something extraordinary happens:
Viewers bring their own emotions
They project their own stories
They feel their own memories rise — often ones they didn’t expect
I’ve had people cry in front of a piece.
Others have stood in silence for ten minutes.
And many have told me, “I don’t know why I feel this way — but I do.”
That’s the power of abstract art born from stillness.
It doesn’t shout. It resonates.
And that resonance continues long after the viewer walks away.
Protecting Your Voice in a World That Tells You Who to Be
For emerging artists, the temptation to be everything to everyone is strong.
It’s easy to believe that your worth is in your reach, your likes, your engagement.
But if I’ve learned anything from creating in silence, it’s this:
Your voice doesn’t get louder by yelling.
It gets clearer by listening.
At EMP, I’ve had to unlearn the idea that art is only valuable when it’s visible.
Some of the most important pieces I’ve ever created have never been posted.
And that choice wasn’t fear — it was reverence.
Not everything needs to be shared immediately.
Some things need to rest.
To be with you for a while.
To teach you something before they teach anyone else.
Silence as Resistance
Choosing silence isn’t about avoidance.
It’s resistance.
In a world that equates visibility with value, choosing to be — to feel, to reflect, to create without needing to explain — is revolutionary.
Stillness resists the algorithm.
Honesty resists expectation.
Slowness resists erasure.
When I stand in front of a blank canvas, I’m not thinking about the market.
I’m thinking about the breath I just took.
The tension in my chest.
The memory that rose this morning for no reason at all.
And from there, something real begins.
An Invitation to Stillness
This blog isn’t just about my process — it’s about yours, too.
Whether you’re an artist, a collector, or someone just learning how to feel again, I want to invite you into stillness.
Find your quiet
Protect it
Return to it again and again
Let it be messy. Let it be gentle.
Let it be the place where you meet yourself again.
And when you’re ready, let what arises from that silence become something you share — not to be seen, but to be felt.
Explore Works Created in Stillness
Conclusion: The Quiet Path Is the Truest One
There is no shortage of noise in this world.
But there is always the possibility of returning to yourself.
In the studio, I return again and again.
To the brush. To the breath. To the moment.
And what comes from that return is more than just art.
It’s truth.
It’s presence.
It’s the quiet voice that never needed to shout to be heard.
