Painting is the most magical of mediums. The transcendence is truly amazing to me every time I go to a museum and I see how somebody figured another way to rub colored dirt on a flat surface and make space where there is no space or make you think of a life experience.

Colored Dirt Becomes Your Inner Space

There's something almost absurd about paint when you really think about it—it's literally just pigment mixed with oil or water, and yet a brushstroke can stop you in your tracks and make you feel something you can't quite name. What Close is getting at isn't just technical skill, though that matters. It's the strange alchemy of how a flat surface suddenly feels deep, how a few colors arrange themselves and suddenly you're remembering a smell, a season, someone's face, a feeling you thought you'd forgotten.

We live in an age of infinite visual content, yet most of it flattens us. But standing in front of a painting does something different—it demands you show up as yourself. You can't scroll past it. The artist had to make a thousand small choices about where each mark went, and somehow those choices reach across time and create an actual space inside you. It's not the painting that has depth; it's what the painting unlocks in you.

What's sneaky here is that this "magic" isn't really magic at all—it's labour, intention, and someone willing to look hard enough at life to translate it into something new. Maybe that's where the real transcendence lives: in witnessing someone else's attempt to make sense of being alive, and finding that it makes sense of your own life too.