I started this piece with a clear idea in mind.
I wanted to experiment with a fluid background technique I’d seen by Simon Bull, whose work is exquisite. He uses a paper towel roll to pull movement through the paint—the kind of technique that feels a little bit like magic when it works. I had to give it a try.
I began laying down soft, blended color, then gently sliding my paper towel roll across the paint. To my surprise, it worked really well.
The background came out soft and luminous—pink sky melting into green, with just enough motion to feel alive. I remember looking at it and thinking, okay, I really love this… now how do I not screw it up?
The plan was to add lupine flowers in the foreground—something delicate and vertical to contrast the horizontal flow.
But as soon as I started to add them, I immediately knew… it wasn’t right.
They didn’t belong there. They felt like blobs of color instead of delicate flowers.
I knew I wasn’t going to be able to fix them. So instead of spending time adjusting them, I shifted my direction entirely.
I started looking at what was already there—the movement in the background, the colors blending into each other—and asked a different question:
What would actually belong here?
The answer came in the form of leaves.
Loose, flowing, layered shapes that could echo the motion already on the canvas. I’ve been drawn to botanical forms lately and needed the practice anyway—so even if it turned out terrible, it would still be worth it.
So I started adding them.
One at a time.
Then another.
Then more… a lot more.
Letting the existing paint guide the direction. Letting the pinks and purples peek through. Letting the shapes overlap and tangle and build on each other.
At some point, it stopped feeling like I was “fixing” the painting and started feeling like I was actually listening to it.
That’s when it became something I could live with.
Not because it turned out exactly as I imagined—
but because it became its own kind of ethereal beauty.
Looking back, this piece isn’t really about fluid art, or flowers, or even leaves.
It’s about that moment where a plan falls apart… and you get to decide what kind of artist you want to be next.
Do you force it?
Do you abandon it?
Or do you stay with it long enough to let it become something else?
This time, I stayed. And I’m glad I did.
I may come back to it and add something more, but for now I’m letting it be—and learning to sit with that.
As always, I asked my son to title the piece. He gave me three options: “Moving Algae,” “The Monster of the Sea,” and “The Hidden Fish.”
He pointed out a small green drop that looked like a sunken ship to him and said he could imagine all sorts of things lurking beneath the leaves. I love seeing my paintings through his eyes.
In the end, I chose Moving Algae—but now I look at this painting with a renewed sense of wonder.
So now I’m curious… What do you see?