From Expression to Stillness

An artist's personal journey through colour, freedom and the search for his own artistic identity.

Sometimes it takes a lifetime to discover that what you truly want to express does not need to be said louder, but rather more quietly.

As a child, I was often asked that familiar question:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

My answer was always the same.

A carpenter or an artist.

Two professions that may seem worlds apart. Yet to me, they shared something essential. Both involve creating something with your hands. Starting with nothing and transforming it into something that did not exist before.

Perhaps, without realising it, I had already discovered the essence of what would become my life.

I wanted to create.

A Fascination with the Unreal

My first great love in art was Surrealism.

I was fascinated by its extraordinary world, where imagination and reality merge effortlessly. The idea that a painting could represent something beyond what we see with our eyes appealed to me deeply.

Art, to me, had to evoke something.

Wonder. Curiosity. Emotion.

It had to take you somewhere beyond the ordinary.

But as so often happens in life, something unexpected crossed my path and gradually changed the way I looked at art.

COBRA.

Its freedom, spontaneity and raw, unpolished character initially seemed far removed from my own understanding of painting.

Yet something about it intrigued me.

Slowly, my interest began to shift.

Eventually, I found myself captivated by the work of Karel Appel. His uncompromising approach, his extraordinary use of colour and, above all, his absolute freedom left a lasting impression on me.

Later, I discovered Willem de Kooning.

Once again, I was drawn to the extraordinary energy of painting guided by instinct rather than representation.

And yet, there was something rather ironic about all of this.

I actually disliked abstract art.

To me, it looked like nothing more than paint thrown onto a canvas.

I simply did not understand it.

Looking back, I can only smile.

Because that very form of art would eventually become the defining passion of my life.

1995 — The Year Everything Changed

In 1995, I decided to give abstract painting a try.

Not because I was convinced, but perhaps because I wanted to understand what others saw in it.

For the first time, I let go of the need to represent reality.

No recognisable subject. No predetermined outcome.

Just a canvas, paint, colour and instinct.

And then something extraordinary happened.

I was captivated.

I experienced a sense of freedom unlike anything I had felt before in my work.

I no longer had to depict something.

I no longer had to explain anything.

I could simply paint.

It was as though a door had opened to a world I had always sensed existed, but had never truly entered.

I discovered that abstraction was not a limitation. It was an invitation to infinity.

And that infinity was not something I merely saw.

It was something I felt.

2004 — A Defining Decision

Although abstract painting had increasingly captured my imagination since 1995, it took another nine years before I made a definitive choice.

In 2004, I decided to leave every other painting discipline behind and dedicate myself entirely to abstraction.

No more compromises.

My work became expressive, colourful and intensely energetic.

Thick layers of paint, powerful gestures, spontaneous compositions and an almost endless desire to experiment.

Lyrical abstraction became my language.

I painted with passion, conviction and, perhaps most importantly, enormous pleasure.

Sometimes a painting began with a single colour. Sometimes with a movement or an emotion that could barely be put into words.

I allowed the paint to flow, collide, accumulate and create unexpected relationships.

I loved the physical nature of painting.

The tension between control and chance.

The moment when a painting seemed to develop a life of its own.

I could lose myself in the process for hours.

The outside world would disappear, leaving only the canvas and the freedom to create.

It is a difficult feeling to explain to someone who has never experienced it.

But to me, it was perhaps the purest form of freedom imaginable.

Nature — My Endless Source of Inspiration

Throughout all these years, one element has remained constant.

Nature.

Not necessarily nature as we literally see it, but nature as I experience it.

The movement of water. The layers of a landscape. The rhythm of trees. Sunlight filtering through leaves. The unexpected harmony between colours that, at first glance, should not belong together.

To me, nature is the greatest abstract artist of all.

Look closely.

No line is ever truly perfect. No colour exists entirely on its own. Everything moves, changes, grows and eventually fades.

It is precisely this unpredictability that continues to fascinate me.

Over the years, I created numerous paintings, including commissioned works for companies and institutions.

My art found its way into a variety of spaces and interiors.

That brought me great satisfaction.

But more importantly, it allowed me to continue developing my own visual language.

My paintings were powerful, exuberant and impossible to ignore.

They demanded attention.

Sometimes, they almost insisted upon it.

And for a long time, that was exactly what I wanted.

A New Chapter — When Power Gives Way to Refinement

But an artist should never stand still.

At least, that is what I believe.

We change as human beings. Our experiences shape us, our perspective evolves and, inevitably, so does what we wish to express.

As I grew older, I began to look at my own work differently.

I still loved colour.

I still loved movement.

And I had certainly not lost my passion for the freedom of abstraction.

But I gradually discovered a growing desire for tranquillity, beauty and refinement.

Not because the energy had disappeared from my work, but because I began to understand something important.

Strength does not always need to be loud.

Around two years ago, I consciously embarked on a new artistic direction.

I wanted to refine my paintings.

To introduce greater balance.

To become more attentive to the relationships between colour, composition, texture and space.

I wanted my work to become more approachable without sacrificing its individuality.

It turned out to be a fascinating process.

How do you preserve the spontaneity that has defined your work for decades while introducing a greater sense of calm and harmony?

How do you create a painting that not only makes an immediate impression when someone enters a room, but continues to captivate them for years?

These questions became my new artistic challenge.

And perhaps my most personal one yet.

The Art of Leaving Things Out

Where my earlier paintings seemed almost to burst beyond the edges of the canvas, today I search much more consciously for balance.

I observe more carefully.

I take a step back.

Sometimes, I deliberately leave a painting untouched.

I have become more selective about what I add.

But above all, about what I choose to leave out.

Because I have learned something along the way.

Not everything that can be painted needs to be painted.

Sometimes a subtle transition between colours expresses more than an explosion of paint.

Sometimes the greatest tension exists within the quietest part of a composition.

And sometimes a single, carefully considered gesture is enough.

My work is still characterised by colour, depth, texture and the organic movement that has always been part of my artistic identity.

But its voice has changed.

The intensity has given way to serenity.

Exuberance has evolved into refinement.

The desire to attract attention has become the ambition to hold it.

I have been searching for a mature, recognisable and distinctly personal artistic signature.

Today, I no longer believe that a painting needs to dominate an entire room.

It can become a natural part of its surroundings.

A presence that is felt without demanding attention.

To me, that distinction is essential.

True Luxury Lies in What You Choose to Leave Out

Over time, I have become convinced that genuine beauty does not require excess.

This applies to architecture, to interiors and perhaps most of all to art.

A painting should not only exist as an independent work.

It should also establish a relationship with the space it inhabits and with the people who live alongside it.

I want to create paintings that continue to reveal themselves.

Works in which colours subtly change as daylight moves through a room.

Where textures become visible only when you approach the canvas.

Where tranquillity and depth coexist with an underlying sense of tension.

Art that does not reveal everything at first glance.

Art that is not merely seen, but experienced.

For me, that is the essence of refinement.

Not less passion.

But greater expression.

Looking Back Without Standing Still

When I reflect on my artistic development, I do not see a succession of unrelated styles.

I see a journey.

From a young boy who dreamed of becoming a carpenter or an artist, through the fascinating world of Surrealism and the uncompromising freedom of COBRA, to my discovery of abstraction in 1995.

From the exuberant, lyrical abstract paintings that defined my work for decades to the quieter, more sophisticated compositions I create today.

Every period was necessary.

Without my fascination with Karel Appel, I might never have found the courage to paint with such freedom.

Without discovering Willem de Kooning, I might never have understood the extraordinary power of spontaneous expression.

And without those many years of colour, movement and thick layers of paint, I would not be able to create the sense of serenity I seek today.

I do not regard my earlier work as something I have abandoned.

It remains a part of me.

It has simply taken on a different form.

Perhaps that is one of the most beautiful aspects of growing older as an artist.

You no longer feel the need to reinvent yourself constantly.

Instead, you begin to understand more deeply who you have always been.

And Now?

Have I reached my final destination?

Absolutely not.

That would suggest that my curiosity had disappeared.

And curiosity is precisely what has driven me throughout my life.

I continue to explore.

New relationships between colours. Unexpected textures. Different compositions. Subtle possibilities that allow me to take my work further.

But I do feel that I am moving closer to what I truly want to express.

Not by painting more forcefully.

Not by trying to show more.

But by making more conscious choices.

My paintings no longer need to shout to be noticed. They can whisper — and leave an even deeper impression.

And perhaps, after all these years, that is my most important discovery.

As a child, I wanted to become a carpenter or an artist.

I eventually became an artist.

But the most beautiful part is that, after all these years, I am still building.

Not houses.

But a world of colour, emotion and beauty.

A world that, with every passing year, becomes more unmistakably my own.

Dick Preesman

Abstract Artist

Less noise. More presence.