Loosen Up: The Art of Working Messily

laying in the mess in the corner of my studio on the floor

I used to feel a bit self-conscious about the state of my studio. Scraps everywhere. Half-squeezed paint tubes, dried brushes in jars of murky water, a cold cup of coffee from the morning still sitting on the table. But over time, I’ve come to embrace — and even rely on — this mess. It’s not disorganization for the sake of it; it’s part of my process. Chaos makes the work possible.

My paintings are about clutter, consumption, and everyday life — not in their idealized versions, but as they actually exist: unfiltered, imperfect, lived-in. It would feel dishonest to try and make the work in a pristine environment. I need the mess around me. I need to feel immersed in it. When I’m working, things fall on the floor and stay there. The scraps get reused. I paint fast and loose. I move quickly, letting accidents happen and chasing the energy of the moment.

There’s something deeply liberating about not cleaning up. It’s a quiet refusal — a refusal to sanitize, to perfect, to over-control. And in some ways, that refusal is exactly what I need. The smudges, the paint drips, the unplanned marks — they become part of the story. They’re what make the piece feel alive. Outside of the studio, my life is highly organized. I update my calendar religiously. I stick to routines. I like knowing what’s next. But painting gives me a place to undo all of that — to let go, to make a mess, to move without knowing where it’s leading. In contrast to my daily structure, the studio becomes a space of surrender.

This way of working keeps me honest. It keeps me from overthinking. I don’t sketch things out carefully or pre-plan compositions. I jump in. I trust my instincts. The paintings evolve through motion and intuition, through layering, tearing, repainting, messing up, starting over. That’s what I love about collage and paint — they’re both forgiving and unpredictable. You can cover things up or let them peek through. Nothing ever fully disappears.

In a way, the mess of my studio mirrors the themes in my work: the overwhelm of daily life, the beauty in overlooked things, the tension between chaos and quiet. I’m not interested in showing life as clean or composed. I want it to feel immediate and real.

So yes, my studio is a mess. It always will be. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

What does your creative space look like? Do you thrive in order or chaos — or something in between?