The first language of a painting isn’t color or composition — it’s material. Before anything is seen, it is felt: the roughness of the canvas, the weight of pigment, the resistance of brush against surface. The materials of a painting carry their own psychology, their own voice. In my work, every texture and layer has symbolic weight. The metallic paints, the matte surfaces, the soft botanicals and sharp lines — each one speaks differently.
Symbolism is not only about image; it’s about how matter behaves. Acrylic, for example, dries fast — it demands decisiveness. Watercolor, on the other hand, resists control, spreading like emotion itself. Chrome or metallic paint reflects the world back to the viewer, blurring the line between subject and spectator. Each medium changes not just the look of a painting, but its meaning.
The Language of Texture
Texture has always fascinated me because it carries memory. A smooth surface feels calm, deliberate. A layered one feels emotional, alive, unfinished — like thought in motion. In outsider or symbolic art, texture is never decorative. It’s part of the emotional architecture.
When I work with thick acrylic layers, I think of sediment — time accumulating, one gesture after another. When I leave visible strokes or scratches, it’s to show the physicality of emotion, the trace of effort. The roughness becomes honesty.
Texture in original paintings also determines how light behaves — how reflection becomes part of perception. A metallic surface mirrors the viewer, turning observation into participation. A matte surface absorbs light, creating introspection instead. The tactile becomes psychological: gloss reveals, while roughness conceals.
Pigment as Emotion
Color has long been understood symbolically, but pigment — the physical material that creates color — carries deeper meaning. Historically, pigments came from stones, minerals, plants, and even insects. Each color had a source, a story, a geography. Ultramarine, once derived from lapis lazuli, symbolized the sacred not just for its hue but for its rarity. Ochres and earth tones linked paintings to the physical world — to soil, rust, and decay.
In my work, this lineage still matters. I often use natural pigments or muted tones alongside synthetic ones — letting them clash intentionally. Neon pink against earthy green; chrome silver beside matte ochre. It’s a dialogue between the artificial and the organic, the modern and the ancestral.
This collision of materials mirrors emotional tension: softness and sharpness, sincerity and irony, vulnerability and resistance. Through pigment, emotion becomes physical.
Symbolism in the Act of Painting
The process itself — how materials are applied — is also symbolic. The fast, layered gestures of acrylic painting suggest urgency, while slow, translucent glazes evoke patience and contemplation. Scratching through a dried layer to reveal the color beneath can feel like unearthing memory.
I often think of painting as ritual. Each layer hides and reveals, builds and erases. The act of covering is as meaningful as the act of showing. In folklore, ritual objects were created through repetition — the motion itself held power. Similarly, when paint is applied in repeated rhythms, it becomes more than technique; it becomes invocation.
The materials participate in this ritual. They behave differently each time — resisting, absorbing, or blending unpredictably. That unpredictability is what keeps the process alive. The paint, in a way, becomes a collaborator.
Metallics and Reflection
The introduction of metallic paints in my original artworks brought a new kind of symbolism — reflection as presence. Unlike traditional pigments, metallics react to light dynamically; they change as the viewer moves. This instability fascinates me. It reminds me of how perception itself is never fixed.
Metallic surfaces also carry cultural associations: gold as sacred, silver as ethereal, chrome as futuristic. In symbolic painting, these materials act as bridges between eras — they connect the ancient idea of divine radiance with contemporary notions of artificiality and technology.
When a metallic surface reflects the viewer’s face amid florals, eyes, or symbols, it creates an exchange — the observer becomes part of the work. This is not just an aesthetic effect but a philosophical one. It asks: where does the painting end and the self begin?
Materiality and Meaning in Original Art
Every medium has its own emotional temperature. Acrylic feels assertive; watercolor feels intimate. Metallics are performative, while graphite or ink feels private, almost secretive. Mixing them is like mixing voices in a conversation — each adds tone, rhythm, and tension.
For me, the physical materials of painting are inseparable from their symbolism. A symbol painted flatly loses force; one carved, layered, or scratched gains resonance. The medium gives it body.
That’s why I often think of materials as metaphors for human states. Gloss is confidence; matte is silence. Cracks are memory. Shine is transformation. Through material, emotion becomes tangible — it gains texture, presence, and sound.
The Poetry of Substance
To paint symbolically is to listen to what materials want to say. Sometimes the acrylic resists, drying too quickly; sometimes the chrome floods the image, erasing detail. Each accident becomes part of the story. The material leads, and I follow.
In a time when digital images are weightless, the tactility of paint feels almost radical. It insists on presence — on touch, on imperfection. The surface remembers every hesitation, every correction, every breath of uncertainty.
That is why materiality still matters. It gives the invisible a body. It lets emotion leave a mark. In the end, every symbol in a painting is also a trace of contact — pigment pressed into meaning, gesture turned into memory.
Through material, art becomes not just something we see, but something that feels back.
