The String and the Breath: On My Technique
The string is both instrument and interlocutor. It refuses perfection, and in that refusal, the work becomes human.
My technique begins with a simple object—a length of string—and a simple action: dip, pull, release. But simplicity is deceptive. The string does not obey like a brush. It responds. It remembers. It trembles. It records the exact state of the body in the moment of contact. This is why I trust it more than any traditional tool.
The string is a collaborator in the truest sense. It carries paint unevenly, twisting in ways that refuse predictability. What emerges is not precision, but presence—an honesty produced by the delicate friction of material against intention. When the line quivers, it reveals the breath behind it. When it steadies, it reveals the body finding balance.
Breath is everything. I inhale to prepare. I exhale to pull. If I hold my breath, the line tightens; if I rush, the line unravels. The painting becomes a kind of recording—not of imagery, but of awareness. You can see where I hesitated, where I trusted, where I let go. Every line contains its own tempo, its own arc of time.
This technique is not about mastery. It is about surrender with discipline. The string insists on a conversation between control and accident. It forces me to remain present. It resists the perfectionism encouraged by digital tools and replaces it with the humbling intimacy of physical gesture. The line reveals everything I didn’t intend to reveal.
Over the years, I’ve realized that the string has its own intelligence. It understands gravity better than I do. It interprets distance, weight, and angle. It turns motion into form. In this way, it becomes a conduit between the body and the world—a line that is pulled, but also pulls back.
The surfaces I work on—canvas or wood—shape the gesture further. Wood grain offers resistance; canvas offers softness. The string notices both. It adjusts. It leaves behind marks that feel as alive as handwriting: the unique signature of movement in a given moment. No two lines are ever the same, because no two breaths are the same.
Technology plays a role in my practice, but the string keeps me rooted in the physical truth of painting. Digital tools can simulate options; they cannot simulate presence. The string requires that I inhabit the moment fully. It remembers the body. It remembers time. It reminds me that abstraction is not an idea—it is a gesture made visible.
Technique, then, becomes philosophy. The string teaches me to move with intention, to accept imperfection, to honor the intelligence of material. It asks me not to control the line, but to accompany it—to let it breathe, to let it become.
My upcoming book, The Shape of Seeing: The Genesis of Abstraction, explores this intimate relationship between body, gesture, and meaning — coming soon.
