When The Painting Paints Itself
A Silent Presence
I have a confession. I have been keeping things from you. So many things.
Today I’m cracking open the door a little more.
I’m going to share something that’s sacred to me.
For the last five months, I’ve been quietly working on The Coup de Grâce Collection —a series of paintings co-created with my most devoted collectors from the Scales project. Until now, these paintings have only lived inside our Discord community. But they’re beginning to speak louder.
They’re asking to be seen.
So, here I am.
Stepping into braver shoes.
In any case, I don’t really have a choice.
Because this last painting —Silent Presence—demands it.
About The Coup De Grace Collection
In truth, this isn’t a “collection” in the usual sense.
It’s a living collaboration between the seen and the unseen.
Ritual disguised as art.
A conversation between souls—and the Greater Unknown—that takes form in oil and pigment.
Each painting is created from a prompt offered by the collector. These prompts are often deeply intimate—cherished memories, tributes to those who have passed on, even poems penned in grief or awe.
My task isn’t to interpret the prompt.
My task is to enter it.
To cross its threshold.
To listen.
To feel what wants to come through.
What emerges on the canvas isn’t a replica of the prompt—it’s a new being.
A presence.
Something with its own will, its own rhythm, its own reasons.
I’m just the midwife.
Wielding a plexiglass squeegee.
Splashing my boots.
There are 100 prompts in the Coup de Grâce queue.
Today I’m sharing No. 22.
Coup De Grace No. 22
Painting Title:
Silent Presence
Collector:
Alex (commonly known in our Community Discord as ai)
Painting Prompt (submitted by Alex, poetry by Alex):
RIP, for my little bro, gone too soon.
Blue Skull's Silence
Canvas veiled in midnight's hue,
skull emerges, ghostly, new.
Hollow eyes, vacant stare,
Swirling blues, haunting air.
Cosmic dance, somber sight,
darkness blends with fading light.
Brushstrokes, whispered sighs,
silent prayer, mournful cry.
Flesh, bone, phantom form,
symbol etched, enduring storm.
Silent witness, ages past,
timeless echo, forever cast.
Notes From The Studio
I finally understand that story about Monet. You probably know the one.
Monet is sitting idly among the lilies at Giverny, staring at the water. A visitor arrives and asks him, “What are you doing?”
He replies, “Working.”
Later, they encounter him again—this time in his studio, brush in hand.
The visitor asks, “And what are you doing now?”
Monet says, “Resting.”
I used to think Monet was out there studying light. Analyzing color. Painting R&D.
But now I think he was up to something else.
He wasn’t just watching the water.
He was becoming the water.
He wasn’t observing the light.
He was becoming the light.
Monet’s work was dissolving the illusion of separation so he could see clearly.
So he could feel the is-ness of the world and of himself—and of himself as the world.
He was entering the Field.
It’s not Monet’s technical skill that makes his paintings hum, that give them an aura.
It’s simply: presence.
I used to think you had to suffer to become this sort of artist. To become this sort of human being. That you had to earn it, bargain for it, beg for it. That you had to torture yourself.
You can torture yourself. And I have. Believe me, I have.
But you don’t have to.
You don’t.
I don’t need to question this anymore. Silent Presence was my final confirmation. It broke something open in me.
When I tell this story as it occurs to me, unapologetically with my whole chest, some people will think I’ve lost my marbles. (Hi, Mom. I’m okay.)
That’s fine.
I’m done qualifying the sacred.
I’m done softening the truth.
I began this painting with Monet-style labor:
I went to the garden.
I spoke to the plants and listened for their response.
I walked with my dog, Scooter, to the bluff where forest meets meadow, knelt down in the tall grass, witnessed the wind move like an errant dream through the hills.
Back at my studio, I mixed paint with full devotion—as if this alone were the whole point. I felt the heaviness of the prompt- grief, longing, a boulder in my chest. But also, vastness. The painting was taking shape in my mind: a blanket of stars, breathing.
By the time I stood in front of the canvas, I knew: I had entered the Field.
Or rather—it entered me.
The Field. I call it this because I don’t know what else to call it. If you have a different name, okay.
The Field.
The place where perception and matter dance.
The original loom.
The pulse that runs through every windowpane, every feather, every human bone.
The frequency beneath all things.
The moment, a living thing.
When I began laying down the paint, I didn’t question what to do. I already knew.
Every step was clear before I started.
Creating it took less than 30 minutes. Usually it takes hours, or days.
But when it was done, I knew. Simpler than most of my recent work—cleaner, bolder, quieter—but its completeness felt like a gavel.
Afterwards, I went out to the garden and lay down in the wood chips. I thanked—well, everything. The grass, the birds, my dog, Alex, Monet. And I thanked myself for having enough faith to do the work before the work.
Later that evening, I sent a photo of the finished painting to the collector, Alex. I told him it was complete, and asked if he agreed.
He responded with effusive love and support. Then, gently asked:
Could I hint at the shape of a skull?
Maybe add it, subtly, somewhere?
Immediately, I felt the no rise up in me.
The Field was closed.
The painting was finished.
But still, I paused. I questioned myself.
Was I lazy? Was I fooling myself? Was I avoiding something?
So, I looked at the painting again.
And that’s when I saw it.
The skull.
Unmistakable.
Perfectly proportioned.
Dominating the canvas.
It had appeared on its own. Silently.
Waiting to be noticed.
I hadn’t painted it. The Field had.
To me, the skull was more than just a skull.
It was a gift. A nod. A cosmic yes.
Yes. Keep going.
Yes. This is the way.
And thats when something I’ve always suspected became something I know for certain:
These aren’t paintings.
They’re transmissions.
Depictions of the Field itself.
To be honest, I don’t actually know what the Field is. Not in words, at least.
I only know it’s big. So big.
And I’m learning how to stay with it—not as a master, but a stone. A listener. A beetle, shading herself under a leaf.
I’m learning to not be afraid of losing it.
I’m learning that to feel it in the studio, I must practice everywhere. To cultivate devotion as a posture of being. To remember that this devotion is its own of reward.
To remember to care
for this wild and precious life.
And so, in conclusion, I bow to you. For being here, and reading this far. For bearing witness and walking beside me.
It’s no small thing. I know it.
And so, if you choose,
let us keep walking together,
toward a silent presence.
You’re remarkable. Remarkable.