These pieces began as a series of small watercolor experiments—each one painted individually on circular sections of paper. There was no fixed plan going in. The goal was simple: let the paint move, react, and settle on its own terms.

Working this way removes control at the start. Color bleeds, edges form unpredictably, and textures develop in ways that can’t be forced. Some areas bloom softly, others create hard lines or unexpected patterns. Each circle becomes its own contained moment of movement and color.

Once the individual pieces were complete, I brought them into Photoshop and began building a larger composition. This is where control returns—but in a different form. Instead of directing the paint, I’m directing relationships:

How shapes overlap
Where color intensity sits
How transparency creates depth
What draws the eye first

Layering the circles allows the textures to interact in new ways. Soft washes stack over one another. Edges blur or sharpen depending on placement. The composition starts to reveal itself rather than being imposed.

This hybrid process—traditional watercolor combined with digital composition—is one I return to often. It gives me the unpredictability and organic movement of paint, paired with the flexibility to experiment, rearrange, and refine without losing the original energy of the work.

The final result is less about a defined subject and more about atmosphere. Color and texture take the lead, while structure emerges gradually through layering and balance.

It’s controlled chaos. Just enough intention to keep it from falling apart.

Every once in a while, I step away from faces and let the rest of the body take over. This was one of those moments. These two pieces came out of the same session—same mindset, same flow, same refusal to behave. One became Backward Thinking. The other… just kind of slid off into existence as a body stretched out on the ground like it gave up halfway through making sense.

Backward Thinking

This one is exactly what it sounds like. At first glance, it reads like a loose, abstract figure. Then your brain kicks in and tries to solve it—and that’s when things get uncomfortable. The body almost works. Almost. But something is off just enough to keep your eye moving, trying to correct it, trying to make it make sense. It bends like a real body might… if it ignored every warning signal and just kept going. That’s the part I like. There’s a tension here between:

• fluid movement
• structural familiarity
• quiet distortion

You recognize the human form, but it doesn’t fully cooperate. It resists being understood too quickly. And yeah, there’s a little metaphor hiding in there whether I planned it or not. Sometimes your thinking loops back on itself so hard you don’t even realize you’re upside down anymore.

The One Lying Down

This one feels like the aftermath. Same visual language. Same continuous line approach. But instead of tension, it leans into collapse. The figure stretches across the space like gravity finally won the argument. It’s less confrontational. More… resigned. But it still plays the same game: your brain tries to piece together limbs, weight, direction—what’s shoulder, what’s hip, what’s even happening—and never quite lands on a single answer. It’s a body, sure. Just not one that’s interested in explaining itself.

Why Full-Body Instead of Faces

Most of the time, I work in portraits—controlled compositions, focal points, expressions that anchor everything. These are the opposite. Just line, movement, and the suggestion of anatomy. That forces the viewer to do more work, which is exactly where things get interesting. You’re not just looking—you’re solving. And while you’re solving, the piece gets under your skin a little.

Continuous Line, Controlled Chaos

Both pieces were created as continuous-style digital line drawings, which means:

• no lifting the pen mentality
• no clean segmentation of body parts
• everything flows into everything else

That’s what gives them that warped, almost organic feel. The line doesn’t stop to ask permission—it just keeps going, even when it probably shouldn’t. Especially when it shouldn’t.

The Real Fun Part

These are the kinds of pieces that don’t hit all at once. They creep up on you. You glance, move on, then your brain goes, “Wait… what the hell was that shape doing?” And suddenly you’re back, trying to untangle it like a visual puzzle. That’s the sweet spot for me—right between recognition and confusion.

These two pieces sit on opposite ends of the same creative process—one driven by instinct, the other refined through structure, but both rooted in simple shapes and bold decisions.

The first composition began the way many of my abstract pieces do: fast, loose, and completely unplanned. Originally created with markers, the shapes built on each other through repetition and balance rather than intention. It wasn’t until the piece was finished that any recognizable idea emerged—something loosely resembling “wine and cheese,” which says more about my subconscious than my planning.

That sketch was later translated into a vector format, where the lines were sharpened and the structure became more defined. The spontaneity remains, but it’s now supported by clean edges, controlled spacing, and stronger visual contrast.

The second piece takes that process a step further into deliberate design.

This one began as a construction-paper study, focusing on bold shapes, color blocking, and composition. It was then refined digitally in Adobe Illustrator, transforming the original cut-paper feel into a crisp vector illustration.

Here, the influence of Bauhaus design becomes more apparent—minimalist geometry, intersecting black lines, and a limited but confident color palette. The composition leans into structure, balance, and repetition, while still maintaining a sense of movement through angled lines and overlapping forms.

Together, these pieces show two sides of the same approach:

• Intuitive, hand-created beginnings
• Digital refinement for clarity and scalability
• Strong geometric forms and simplified shapes
• A balance between accidental discovery and intentional design

Abstract work like this doesn’t rely on a fixed subject. Instead, it creates a visual language—one that hints at meaning without locking it in place. Sometimes that language turns into something recognizable. Sometimes it just holds a mood. Either way, the process is where the real work happens.

This piece started as a very simple, hand-drawn abstract bird created with markers. The shape is intentionally geometric—reduced down to sharp angles and flat planes, with just a few line details to suggest form and texture. There was no complexity in the design. That was the point.

What made this piece interesting came later, when I turned that static shape into a short motion experiment you can view on Pinterest. By separating the illustration into layers in Adobe Illustrator and bringing it into After Effects, I was able to explore how minimal forms can suggest movement.

The goal wasn’t realism. It was suggestion.

• A slight shift in angle.
• A subtle rotation.
• A repeated motion pattern.

Suddenly, the rigid shape becomes a fluttering bird.

This kind of motion relies less on detail and more on timing and structure. Because the design is so stripped down, even the smallest movement becomes noticeable. It forces the animation to carry the weight instead of the illustration. The process itself was straightforward:

• Create a flat, abstract design in Adobe Illustrator
• Break the artwork into separate layers
• Import into After Effects
• Animate simple, repeated motion to imply flight

Even though the final piece is intentionally rudimentary, it opened the door to a much larger idea—using abstract shapes to explore motion, rhythm, and transformation.

This is the kind of work that tends to evolve quickly. One small experiment turns into ten variations, then into a series. Different shapes, different movements, different levels of complexity layered on top of the same core concept. Consider this the first flutter of many.