When I began Mantis, I wasn’t sure whether I was painting a creature, a presence, or a state of mind. The image grew out of movement. Brushstrokes were layered over time, colors reacting to one another like thoughts trying to form. Somewhere in that process, a figure began to emerge: part insect, part guardian, something waiting in perfect stillness. The title came later, when I realized what I was really painting wasn’t the mantis itself, but the quality of watchfulness it embodies.
The mantis fascinates me because it lives in contradiction. It was both delicate and fierce, patient and lethal, quiet yet electric with intent. I tried to channel that tension through texture and color. The blue and green passages carry a sense of spirit and intuition, while the yellows and reds bring in warmth and danger. The pale green and cream tones hold it all together, like breath between thoughts. When I added a sharp white highlight along the left edge, it finally came alive. That small gesture felt like light catching on the edge of awareness.
For me, the act of painting Mantis was about listening. The image didn’t want to be forced into clarity; it wanted to hover between abstraction and apparition. I followed that rhythm, trusting the paint to tell me when to stop. The surface now feels alive to me. Its layers shift like the air before movement. It reminds me how much can happen inside stillness.
Mantis isn’t just a painting about an insect; it’s about that poised moment before transformation. It is the inner readiness that precedes action. It’s a meditation on patience, attention, and intuition. When I look at it now, I see not the mantis watching me, but myself reflected back through its gaze.