Comeback after 1 year


It’s been one year. Wow, that’s quite some time.

You may have or haven’t noticed, but this is my first time posting something in a long time.

I remember some years ago being in a bar (which is an extraordinary case by itself, as nobody would never describe me as “night owl” ) with some friends. As we were having a friendly conversation, like most normal human beings would have, a fun anecdote popped up into my mind. I wanted to share it with everybody, so I patiently waited for those 3 to 5 seconds or weird silence that tells you the previous conversational theme have been concluded and it's time to start a new one. I started explaining my fun story to them. I've already forgotten what it was all about, but believe me, you'll be grateful for that. 

 As soon as I opened my mouth I knew by the look of my poor friends the story wasn't as interesting as my dumb brain made me believe. My armpits decided to reveal against me and sweated uncontrollably. My little story and my poor talking abilities ended quite fast. We all rapidly changed our conversation. No need for those 3 seconds of courtesy.

I'm feeling a tad of that same anxiety right now. As if I was watched by a bunch of strangers. Problem is I can't see you so there is no way for me to know whether you are being entertained or simply bored to death.

But, if you're curious about my one year absence, then, by all means, be my guest and keep reading.

I shouted my website down, my social media stopped being social altogether and I simply stopped painting with oils. I’ve felt like a ghost for a year. Not in any bad or creepy way, just in the simple and plain meaning of absence. If I had to choose a color to describe it, that would be white. I felt like a blank canvas.

Blank canvases from a while back. Most of them are already painted.

Blank canvases from a while back. Most of them are already painted.

There was a lot of noise before. A buzzing noise that kept bugging me for months. 

Much, much later I realized what this noise was all about. The anxious me. The perfectionist me. The me needing such a high level of validation that it would have been impossible to achieve, even for Basquiat.

This past year I haven’t painted in oils, but I’ve drawn. I’ve studied color, composition, landscapes. Color again. Movies and movement.

At some point I started to miss painting terribly, as if I got my arm amputated and  just realized that because I couldn't reach to scratch my back. That white, bugging noise wasn’t there anymore, which was quite reassuring, but I didn’t like the silence that followed it. 

I had to take the oil tubes and brushes back and paint that blank canvas again.

I thought I would feel rusty. You know, try to drive a car after a year without pressing the clutch pedal. You’ll know what I mean. 

Instead, it felt surprisingly good. Natural. 

I painted about 15 small studies simply to experiment and have an idea towards where I wanted to go.


And here's where I am right now.

My armpits are starting to sweat again, so I'll just shut up for now.



Andrea Castro