The Confidence I Didn’t Know I Had

A new year usually arrives with promises. Clear mind, new habits, hope.

I’m starting this one in bed, feeling a bit sick, writing because I hope the act itself might bring some clarity. Sometimes I write to understand what I’m feeling, not because I already know it.

I’m still working on the project with Vogue. There’s only one painting left to finish. This project placed me in a strange position, not only because of responsibility or pressure, but because it forced me to look at priorities more closely. My mind is constantly divided between work and my artistic journey, and most of the year I convince myself that one must always come before everything else. But during Christmas, something shifted. For a few days, there was only one priority, and it was family. I wasn’t productive in the way I usually measure productivity, but I felt balanced. I felt present. And maybe that matters more than I admit.

There is still one painting left. In this project I’m repainting portraits I had painted weeks ago, and something unexpected is happening. I always believed my paintings were moments of my life. What I feel in a specific day becomes the painting, which is why I usually finish a portrait in a single session. I always thought my work came from spontaneity, from intuition, from something almost accidental. For the first time, I had to return to something I had already done. I was afraid of that. I wondered if I would be able to recreate a painting made in another state of mind. Would I remember the colours. Would my hand know the same movement. I don’t consider myself a painter of precision or theory. I never trusted that side of me. And yet, to my surprise, I found myself able to recreate the colours almost exactly. The same tones. Similar brushstrokes. What might look obvious to someone outside felt like a revelation to me. It meant that the colours I chose weren’t random. They weren’t accidents. I knew what I was doing, even if I didn’t know I knew it at the time. That realization brought me a quiet confidence I didn’t expect. A sense that my intuition is not fragile, but built on something real.

I’ve been a portrait painter for a while now. Always the same closeness. The same cropping. Faces without distraction. No elaborate backgrounds. Just the imperfect truth of a human expression. And lately I feel something changing. A restlessness. A need to move forward, even if I don’t yet know where that leads. I don’t know what my next stage will look like. I don’t know when it will arrive. But I feel it approaching. And for the first time in a while, that uncertainty doesn’t scare me. It feels like an invitation.

Maybe this year isn’t about starting fast.

Maybe it’s about listening better.