The Orbs: Learning from What Refuses to Settle
Unfinished Truths and Emotional Density in Art
The Orbs were created in January 2022, during the post-pandemic period. It was a time when restrictions had finally eased, and I could once again return to creating art. There was relief in that freedom—but also a heaviness that lingered.
The lessons of isolation, being on your own during the ECQ, and learning to truly value life were still very present in my heart and mind. I carried those experiences with me into the studio, whether I intended to or not.
The process itself was intuitive. I created the orbs by pushing a balloon onto wet paint—allowing chance, pressure, and movement to determine their form. I mixed gold paint with acrylic medium so it could flow more freely, then softened it with white paint so the gold would not feel too heavy.
Later, I painted a woman holding a golden apple and reaching toward a book—the Bible. For me, the golden apples represent the Word of God. They were what sustained me during those trying times. They were what helped me hold on to life when everything felt uncertain.
At the time, I did not overthink the composition. I painted from what was still unresolved.
A Gentle Reading of The Orbs
What immediately stands out to me now is movement. The central figure feels suspended—reaching forward, yet not fully grounded. There is a strong diagonal pull from left to right, suggesting longing, effort, and aspiration. Looking back, that reaching feels deeply personal. I was moving forward, but still carrying the weight of what had just passed.
What once felt “wrong” to me about this painting was not a technical error, but something harder to name. It was visual congestion.
The orbs, textures, splatters, and gold elements are all active. Individually, they are meaningful. Together, they compete for attention. The eye does not immediately know where to rest. And perhaps that is the point.
There was a time when too many intentions, emotions, and reflections existed all at once. Each one mattered. Each one had weight. But together, they became overwhelming. This painting holds that truth without apology.
Emotional Density and the Absence of Pause
The background of The Orbs is rich and expressive, but it offers very little breathing space. Everything feels important. Nothing is quiet.
For a long time, I thought this was a flaw. Now I understand it differently. It is not wrong—it is emotionally dense.
This painting was created before I fully learned the lesson of waiting. Before I learned that not everything needs to be said at once. The absence of pause mirrors a season when rest was still difficult, even after the world reopened.
In many ways, The Orbs echoes the lesson I later wrote about—patience. It shows what happens when life moves faster than our ability to process it.
The Figure at the Center
The woman in the painting is clear to me. Her gesture, her posture, her direction—they are intentional. She reaches while holding something precious. She does not abandon what sustains her as she moves forward.
What feels unresolved is not her, but the space around her. The orbs feel like thoughts, memories, prayers, and questions that have not yet settled. They hover. They remain present.
This is not a compositional failure. It is a psychological truth captured honestly.
Why I Could Not Let This Painting Go
I kept The Orbs because it holds a moment when judgment, emotion, and intuition collided. It documents a time when clarity had not yet arrived—but movement continued anyway.
The painting has never been sold. Perhaps others sense what I sense—that it is unresolved, imperfect, even uncomfortable. And yet, it remains with me.
It is less an error and more a witness.
Why The Orbs Belongs in This Series
In the context of Lessons from the Canvas, The Orbs quietly support everything I have come to believe:
It shows what happens when we act before everything has thoroughly dried.
It embodies the discomfort of sitting with imperfect outcomes.
It reminds us that not all works are meant to be resolved—some are meant to teach.
In art therapy language, this painting is not asking to be corrected.
"It is asking to be observed without judgment."
And perhaps that is the hardest lesson of all—not just in art, but in life.
Author’s Note
I write this reflection at a season when I am learning to slow down—to listen more carefully to both my art and my life. Returning to the canvas has reminded me that not everything needs to be resolved immediately, and that some lessons arrive only when we allow ourselves to pause. Through these writings, I hope to share not answers, but honest moments—where art becomes a quiet companion in understanding patience, imperfection, and grace.
