People often assume that every artistic decision emerges from a conceptual framework, a theoretical position, or a profound insight. Yet many creative choices begin from something far more ordinary.
I remember being asked during an exhibition why my paintings were a particular size, why they were elongated rather than square. I could hardly answer that this format happened to fit the storage space where I kept them before and after exhibitions. Yet this practical reality was part of the decision. Rationality exists even in places where we prefer to see only inspiration.
The same can be said of materials and methods. Perhaps an artist begins cutting large tapestries into smaller fragments because storing monumental works becomes impossible. What starts as a practical solution eventually becomes an aesthetic language. Storage is no longer a problem, and fragmentation becomes part of the work itself.
Themes can also emerge through rational choices. An artist may avoid political subjects not because they lack conviction, but because circumstances make certain forms of speech dangerous. For an immigrant, a public statement can carry consequences that extend far beyond the exhibition space. There are families to support, children to care for, lives that depend upon stability. Silence can sometimes be a rational decision rather than an absence of belief.
Faith, too, can be affected by practical realities. One may be deeply inspired by spiritual questions, yet find few opportunities or platforms willing to engage with such explorations. At other times, success itself becomes a form of rationality. When a particular approach works, when years of effort have been invested in cultivating a body of work, experimentation becomes more difficult. Like the rose in The Little Prince, something becomes precious because of the time, care, and attention devoted to it.
So what is my own rationality at this moment?
For me, it is space.
I think through space before anything else. I create for a specific wall, a specific room, or for the relationship between walls. An exhibition begins as a spatial conversation. The number of works, their scale, their placement, the proportions between materials and forms—all emerge from an awareness of a particular environment.
Perhaps there is something curatorial in this approach. Within my exhibitions, I become both artist and curator. I am not only making individual works; I am constructing relationships between them. The exhibition itself becomes a medium, carrying a message that no single artwork could communicate alone.
And what is that message?
At its core, it is hope.
It is curiosity about the world and a desire to remain open to what is not yet known. It is a commitment to growth, to continual learning, and to the possibility of transformation. It is an attention to physical and emotional well-being. It is a search for balance, clarity, and care.
Perhaps this, too, is a form of rationality: creating conditions in which life, art, and meaning can continue to unfold.