“When you’re in this space alone, what part of your practice reveals who you really are; the part no exhibition text ever captures?”
MV - The studio is the only place that sees every stage of a painting and every version of me while I’m making it. It sees the good days when things flow, and it sees the moments where I’m frustrated or embarrassed by what’s happening on the canvas.
The hardest part of my process is always the beginning. Before I even start painting, I get stuck in my own head about whether the idea is strong enough to commit to. It’s a stressful stage because nothing exists yet. That planning stage brings out all the self-doubt.
Once the painting is underway, the anxiety starts fading. Seeing progress and figures taking form feels like encouragement. Even when they aren’t self-portraits, they still feel connected to who I am. When a piece isn’t working, it’s a physical representation of my weaknesses.
The studio sees all of this long before the public sees the work. It’s the part of my practice that never shows up in exhibitions, but it’s the most honest part of the process.
“What are you trying to solve here; emotionally, visually, or spiritually; that you can’t solve anywhere else in your life?”
MV - I wouldn’t say I’m trying to solve anything specific. Painting simply gives me something I don’t find anywhere else. Once I get started on a project, It’s the one place where everything quiets down, where my worries fade and I feel grounded in a way I don’t feel in the rest of my day. The canvas becomes a space where I can build my own world and shape my own narratives. The studio has always felt like a refuge.
There’s a real joy in taking ideas and blobs of paint and turning them into something tangible. When I take on an ambitious piece, I’m proving to myself that I’m capable, both technically and conceptually. It’s the only work in my life that feels fully my own, unlike a 9 to 5 where you’re contributing to something larger. A painting can hold feelings and experiences I can’t articulate as clearly in words, and watching that take form is deeply satisfying and gives me a sense of pride.
“How does the work decide it’s finished? Is it intuition, surrender, or a negotiation between you and the piece?”
MV - Finishing a painting usually happens in one of two ways. Ideally, it’s done when I’ve spent enough time with it to feel genuinely satisfied, when I know there’s nothing left to add that would make it stronger, technically or conceptually. Those moments are the best, and they happen more often now that I’m no longer rushing toward school deadlines.
Other times, a piece is “finished” simply because the idea is clear but the execution doesn’t quite land. When that happens, I make peace with it and treat the painting as part of the research for a future version of the concept. I may not be happy with the result, but I accept it for what it contributes to the process. These pieces never see the light of day, no posts, no exhibitions, just tucked away in the studio. They become steps forward rather than failures, something I can return to later with fresh eyes, stronger references, and better skills.
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