In the summer of 2024, I read an article about aphantasia—often described as the absence of a mind’s eye. Until then, I had assumed “picture this” was simply an expression, not something people literally experienced. As I began asking friends and family, I realized most people could voluntarily visualize faces, places, and memories. I cannot.
Around that same time, I was navigating profound loss. I had lost my Ridgeback, Wimbo, less than a year earlier. My mother continued her journey with Alzheimer’s, and Madruki, my dog, was experiencing seizures that limited my time in the studio. I created this painting over many days, adding thousands of individual dots as I processed grief, uncertainty, and ultimately, acceptance.
When I close my eyes, I see nothing. No faces. No places. No memories. Only something like the static from an old television. Yet I experience emotion deeply. This painting became my way of showing others what my inner world is like. I’m grateful to finally understand why I experience the world differently—and why I don’t paint what I see. I paint what I feel.