In Silence, I Become the Paint
- Karenina Fabrizzi
- Jun 9
- 2 min read
As an artist, I’ve come to understand that my work often reveals to me what I’m not always able, or willing, to put into words.
Sometimes it’s a whisper, delicate and fleeting, a quiet sensation brushing the edges of awareness. Other times, it’s a loud scream, a force so powerful it creates an undeniable sound that almost shakes us to our core.
Painting, for me, is not just a practice; it’s a deeply intimate act of truth-telling. It is my most trusted companion, the one that listens without judgment and speaks back through color and form. It feels like an extension of who I am, woven into my very DNA.
My brushes are not tools; they are limbs. The pigments I choose are not random, they are memories, feelings, and intuitions, encoded in color.
The palette is not an object I hold, it is part of my pulse. There is a subtle but profound blurring of lines between where I end and the materials begin.
In those moments of deep creation, I am no longer separate from the linen, the oil, the texture, I become the work. My cells, my breath, my blood, all unite in a single rhythm to bring something unseen into existence.
So it is no wonder that what emerges on the surface carries so much of me. It speaks, even when I don’t.
In a world increasingly obsessed with the external, where speed, appearance, and reaction are prioritized, the space for inner exploration feels like it’s shrinking.
The more we look outward for meaning, the narrower life begins to feel.
But in those rare, sacred moments when we choose to pause, to close our eyes, to breathe, and to turn inward, we come into contact with something vast, something without borders. And yes, it can be terrifying.
The unknown always is. It demands courage to face the parts of ourselves we don’t fully understand.
But if we dare to move beyond the fear, even for a moment, we begin to sense the wonder of being alive.
We begin to feel the magnitude of this existence, and how often we miss it, lost in the noise of immediacy, in the addiction to fast answers and surface-level gratification.
We forget how sacred slowness can be, how much wisdom lives in stillness.
So let us begin again. Let us take a few minutes each day to return to that vast, silent place, the place where creation begins.
Let us connect with the unknown not as something to fear, but as something to honor.
In that space, we remember who we are. We remember why we create. And we let go, not to lose ourselves, but to find the part that was always waiting to be seen.
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