When I began painting fantasy worlds, I didn’t always feel the need to paint people.
There are other ways to tell a story — quieter, stranger ways. A single flower can hold more emotion than a face; an eye hidden inside a blossom can feel more human than a body. In my original paintings, I often replace the figure with symbols — because symbols, in their silence, speak more honestly.
Fantasy doesn’t need characters in the traditional sense. It needs presence — something that breathes inside the image.
That presence can live in color, texture, or repetition. A serpent that curls into infinity, a mirrored shape, a wound-like bloom — each becomes a stand-in for a human gesture, a fragment of emotion turned visual.
Beyond the Body
In art history, figures have always carried meaning. They were saints, lovers, gods, or archetypes. But in contemporary fantasy painting, the body doesn’t have to appear to be felt.
I’ve always been drawn to the challenge of creating emotion without faces — of expressing desire, grief, or transformation through forms that exist somewhere between natural and symbolic.
When I paint, I think of anatomy differently. Roots are veins. Petals are skin. A stem can bend like a spine.
In that sense, every element of nature becomes a proxy for the body — and sometimes a more truthful one.
A human face tells you too much. A flower only suggests. It leaves space for the viewer to project themselves inside the image.
Symbols as Living Characters
The way I use symbols — eyes, serpents, mouths, mirrors, floral shapes — is not decorative. They are the protagonists.
An eye can be protective or voyeuristic. A serpent can mean danger, wisdom, or rebirth. Flowers can seduce, mourn, or conceal.
Each symbol carries its own psychology. When repeated or combined, they begin to behave like characters in a story.
A painting filled with serpents and blooms might represent a dialogue between temptation and growth. A field of closed eyes might feel like a crowd watching inward. A mirror might stand in for the soul — fragile, luminous, and easily distorted.
In fantasy, these elements act like actors on a stage. Their gestures are color and form; their voices are light and texture.
The Silence of Symbolic Storytelling
Working without human figures opens a different kind of narrative space — one where emotion is suggested rather than declared.
A composition can whisper instead of speak. It becomes more like poetry than prose: open, interpretive, intimate.
This is where fantasy painting becomes almost psychological.
Without the literal presence of a body, the viewer must search for one — and in doing so, they find themselves.
It’s a kind of empathy through absence.
Sometimes I think that’s why I gravitate toward eyes and blossoms so much — they suggest awareness, even when no one is there. They remind us that life, like emotion, doesn’t always need a witness to exist.
The Human Element in the Non-Human
Even without figures, these paintings are deeply human.
Every mark comes from the body — from hand pressure, breath, pulse. The rhythm of brushstrokes mimics thought, the layering of pigment mirrors memory.
Fantasy art has always blurred the line between outer and inner worlds. In my work, I try to let those worlds merge — to let symbols behave like emotions made visible.
A flower might express vulnerability; a mirrored surface might hide shame; a snake might carry the thrill of risk.
In a sense, I’m painting portraits — not of people, but of feelings.
Fantasy as Language
Symbols are the grammar of fantasy.
They allow emotion to exist without translation — you don’t need to “understand” a serpent, a bloom, or an eye. You just feel their presence.
When viewers look at these paintings, they often describe seeing themselves in the forms — as if the symbols mirror their own inner states. That’s what I hope for: that the art becomes a conversation between image and viewer, between symbol and psyche.
Original fantasy paintings without figures are not empty; they’re full of hidden personalities. Each motif carries its own heartbeat.
The Freedom of the Unseen
Painting without human figures feels liberating.
It breaks the expectation of beauty, gender, or narrative. It allows the emotional core of a piece to exist without explanation — to remain fluid, dreamlike.
In a world obsessed with faces, I find comfort in their absence.
When there’s no one to look at, the painting itself begins to look back.
That’s what fantasy, at its best, can do — turn symbols into souls, silence into story, and abstraction into something deeply, recognizably human.
