Harmony doesn’t require everything to match.
A quiet passage can sit beside a burst of color. A sharp line can interrupt a soft shape. Those differences give a painting its character.
I call this complex harmony—the possibility that difference, history, interruption, and beauty can coexist without becoming the same.
The harmony I’m drawn to has tension. A painting can feel unsettled and still hold together. A small mark may balance a large shape. An unexpected color may bring a muted passage to life.
Complexity isn’t about filling the canvas. It comes from relationships: what draws the eye, what offers rest, and how one passage changes another.
The difficult part is deciding which interruptions belong. Something awkward may distract—or it may be exactly what the painting needs. Making it more agreeable can mean losing something worth keeping.
I want the work to feel whole without smoothing away its differences. Each part has a place, but it still has its own character.
