How My Relationship with Color Has Changed Over Time
Color has always been the most emotional part of my work.
Before shape. Before texture. Before composition.
It’s color that calls first.
But the way I listen to color — the way I understand it, choose it, and feel with it — has shifted dramatically over the years.
What once felt instinctual now feels sacred.
What I used to select for harmony, I now invite for truth.
This blog traces that shift.
It’s a reflection on how my relationship with color has evolved as I’ve grown — not just as an artist, but as a human being.
Because how we relate to color is how we relate to feeling.
And color, in abstract art, is not decoration. It’s language.
The Early Years — Color as Aesthetic
When I first started creating, I chose colors based on how they looked together.
Soft pastels because they felt safe
Bold primaries when I wanted to be seen
Black and white when I felt unsure and wanted to stay in control
At that time, my relationship with color was largely visual.
I used it to make something I thought others would like — something cohesive, pleasing, “correct.”
I was learning technique.
And while that stage was important, I wasn’t yet feeling with color — I was styling with it.
Color was the outfit.
But it hadn’t yet become the voice.
The Shift — When Color Started Speaking to Me
Everything changed the first time I chose a color that scared me.
It was a raw ochre — a little muddy, slightly aggressive.
I remember hesitating with the brush in my hand, thinking:
“This doesn’t belong in this piece.”
And then:
“…but maybe that’s why it needs to be there.”
I trusted the urge.
I placed it.
And suddenly the whole piece opened up.
It felt alive.
Not pretty. Not polished. But honest.
That moment was the beginning of a new relationship.
Color was no longer just a visual decision — it became an emotional one.
A moment-by-moment dialogue with my inner landscape.
Color as Emotional Frequency
Over time, I began to realize that each color holds a vibration.
Not just a mood — a frequency. A body-level resonance.
Warm rusted red feels like grounding, memory, rootedness
Soft slate blue evokes longing, depth, and breath
Blushed beige whispers safety, softness, surrender
Chartreuse pulses with disruption, provocation, and newness
These associations weren’t learned from theory — they came from feeling.
And those feelings weren’t static. They changed, as I changed.
There was a season when I couldn’t touch yellow — it felt like a lie.
Then, two years later, I found myself reaching for it in moments of delicate hope.
Not the loud lemon yellow of certainty, but the quiet warmth of a yellow just coming back into the body.
This is what it means to let color guide rather than decorate.
It becomes not just a choice, but a conversation.
The Role of Intuition in Color Selection
Today, when I begin a piece, I almost never plan a palette.
Instead, I pause and ask:
“What wants to move through today?”
“What emotion is here that hasn’t been named?”
“What part of myself needs to be witnessed?”
From that question, a color rises.
Sometimes two.
Occasionally, something loud demands the first stroke. Other times, the palette unfolds like a whisper.
I trust the emergence.
Even if it’s uncomfortable.
Even if it makes no sense to the eye.
Even if it disrupts everything.
Because those are usually the colors that mean the most.
How Color Holds My Emotional History
Each phase of my life has had a distinct color language.
There was a time when everything I painted was navy and charcoal — heavy with introspection, grief, unspoken truths.
Then came a season of raw sienna and plum — emotional excavation, honesty, hunger.
Lately, my palette has softened.
Dusty lavender. Bone white. Pale blush.
It’s not less emotional. It’s just quieter. More trusting.
I no longer need to shout on the canvas to be heard — I let the colors breathe.
Looking back, I can read my life through the pigments I used.
The work became a journal I didn’t know I was writing.
Color as Boundary and Invitation
Something else that’s changed over time: my understanding of how color sets emotional boundaries — for myself and for the viewer.
Some colors say: “Come closer.”
Others say: “This is sacred — approach slowly.”
And others still say: “This is not yours to hold.”
I use color now not just to express feeling, but to shape the emotional architecture of the piece.
For example:
A warm gradient might soften a piece that would otherwise feel too sharp to hold
A singular streak of red across muted tones might mark the moment of rupture — or the breath that came after it
Blank space (the absence of color) becomes as powerful as presence — it says: “Pause here”
Color doesn’t just emote. It structures the experience.
And I’ve learned to respect that structure.
Working with Uncomfortable Colors
In my earlier practice, I avoided colors that made me feel exposed — mustard yellow, harsh purple, acidic green.
Now, those are often the ones I need most.
These are the colors that challenge me.
They make me pay attention.
They force me to slow down and ask: “Why am I resisting this?”
Often, the answer has nothing to do with the painting — and everything to do with what I’m not ready to feel.
By working with uncomfortable colors, I’ve opened emotional doors I didn’t know I was keeping closed.
And every time I do, the piece becomes more honest.
More human.
More real.
Color and the Body
Color doesn’t just live in the eye.
It lives in the body.
There are days when I choose colors based on sensation:
A rising tightness in my chest becomes pale blue
A warmth in my belly becomes terracotta
A flutter in my hands becomes bright vermillion
The more attuned I’ve become to somatic experience, the more I’ve realized that color is a bridge between emotion and embodiment.
Painting is not a head exercise for me.
It’s physical.
Spiritual.
Intuitive.
And color is the first language of that dialogue.
The Collector’s Experience of Color
One of the most humbling parts of creating with color is watching how others experience it — completely differently than I intended.
What felt like mourning to me might feel like peace to someone else.
What felt soft might strike a deep, intense chord for a collector.
What I thought was “too much” might be exactly what someone needed.
This is why I don’t over-explain my work.
I let the color speak.
Because when someone feels something in their body from a painting — even if it’s not what I felt — that’s real.
That’s resonance.
That’s the point.
Color as Prayer
At this stage in my journey, color feels almost devotional.
Each hue I choose feels like a quiet prayer — not to something outside myself, but to what is still unfolding within.
There are pieces I’ve made that felt like mantras in color:
A repetition of soft neutrals to call in steadiness
A clash of opposites to witness conflict
A sudden flood of gold to mark gratitude I couldn’t speak aloud
Color has become how I pray without words.
How I offer something back to the world.
Not for attention.
Not even for understanding.
Just to say: “I was here. This is how I felt. May it mean something to you too.”
What My Palette Says About Me Now
If you walked into my studio today, you’d find:
Earthy pinks
Cool greys
Ochres that have softened into honey
Blues that still hold grief, but with more breath between the waves
These colors didn’t arrive from a trend board.
They came from living.
From sitting with myself.
From growing — painfully, beautifully — into someone who no longer paints for resolution, but for presence.
Each color now feels like a part of me I’ve finally learned to welcome.
Even the loud ones.
Even the ones I once rejected.
And in welcoming them, I’ve welcomed myself more fully, too.
Color as Companion
Over the years, color has gone from a tool — to a language — to a companion.
It’s walked with me through uncertainty, expansion, contraction, healing, becoming.
Color reminds me that feeling is not weakness.
That beauty can hold contradiction.
That intuition is often the most honest guide we have.
At EMP, every piece I create begins with that companionship.
I follow color like a thread — not because it makes sense, but because it feels right.
And in doing so, I discover something new about myself every time.
