Stars: A Painting That Moves Like Music

Every once in a while, a painting goes beyond what you expected it to become. It starts to feel less like something you made—and more like something that came through you. That’s Stars.

This 48x60 inch piece lives in my own home, and it’s hard to describe what it does to the room without sounding overly sentimental. But Stars isn’t soft or quiet. It roars. Built from layer after layer of poured acrylic and epoxy resin, it surges with black and grey drips, splashes of red, and bursts of yellow that seem to explode out of the surface. It’s all energy. All momentum.

What makes this one feel different, even to me, is the rhythm. The painting doesn’t sit still—it moves, like a live song rolling through a stadium.

My signature black line work cuts across the chaos, outlining shapes and strokes that rise and fall like guitar riffs. There’s a rawness to it, but also structure—like a great track that’s been rehearsed to perfection but still feels unpredictable every time you hear it.

I named it Stars because it felt cosmic. Not in the outer space sense, but in the rock-and-roll sense—like something big was burning out in the atmosphere and left this trail behind.

It reminds me of those moments when music or memory or pure emotion just hits, and for a second, you feel totally weightless. You feel lit up.

There’s so much movement in this piece that it’s more of an experience than a painting. You don’t just view it—you watch it happen.

People ask me sometimes, “How do you live with your own work in your house?”

With Stars, the answer is easy: because it doesn’t feel like mine anymore—it feels like a song I’ve always known.