Have you ever felt that others see you differently than you see yourself?
I’ve often noticed how surprised people are when they learn I chose to become an artist. My background is in chemical engineering, where I studied silicate-based materials, structures, and processes. Later, I worked in web design and technology. From the outside, it doesn’t read as a straightforward path into art—it’s easy to simplify it into something more linear. But for me, it was never abrupt or unexpected. It felt like a natural progression.
That feeling followed me into the work on the triptych.
The Sequence: How Meaning Unfolds
There are three phrases. One for each piece. “Don’t simplify me.” “I’m not linear.” “You do not define me.” The next question was simple, yet crucial: in what sequence should the phrases appear?
At first, I arranged them as a kind of dialogue:
“I’m not linear.” “Don’t simplify me.” “You do not define me.”
It read almost like a voice trying to explain itself. A movement from inner statement to outward resistance. But the sequence lacked tension. From the first piece to the last, there was no drama. The reading felt too predictable.
I reconsidered the order, thinking about how the viewer experiences the work. I wanted the reading to demand attention. Each step should ask more of the viewer, increasing the effort to interpret, to feel, to connect. The cognitive load should grow, mirroring the idea that identity is never simple.
Now, the sequence begins with:
Piece I — “I’m not linear.”
The phrase is immediately readable. The viewer’s eye glides over it; the brain does not yet notice the typographic complexity. Understanding comes quickly, almost effortlessly—an invitation to enter the work.
Piece II — “You do not define me.”
Here, the reading direction shifts. The viewer must engage more actively, tracing the structure, finding the system in which the letters exist. The eye can no longer skim. Attention becomes necessary.
Piece III — “Don’t simplify me.”
By the final piece, the work demands reflection. The viewer must pause, even mirror or invert perception, to read fully. The act of reading itself becomes part of the experience, echoing the meaning of the phrase: identity cannot be simplified, and understanding takes effort.
In this way, the triptych itself mirrors the complexity of identity: resisting easy comprehension, inviting curiosity, and unfolding its meaning gradually.
A System of Limits
Once the concept and three phrases were defined, I set constraints: a limited palette (deep blue, warm white, electric green), a vertical format, and the use of Vyaz (an old Slavic script).
Each color became part of the meaning.
Deep blue holds depth and distance—something stable, almost infinite. Warm white feels human—soft, imperfect, present. Electric green disrupts—a signal that demands attention, slightly out of place. Together, they create tension between calm, structure, and interruption.
Material Exploration
Then came material exploration. I was searching for something that could hold both precision and distortion—structured, yet not entirely stable. Some medium felt too clean, others too chaotic. I paid attention not just to how each medium looked, but how it behaved: how it interacted, and what kind of tension it could create.
In the end, I chose acrylics of different consistencies. They let me play between precision and unpredictability, building layers and textures as I went. Thick applications gave the paint weight and structure, while thinner washes could flow and bleed. This mix of control and spontaneity brought a kind of living tension to the work reflecting the fragile and complex nature of identity itself.
The Background Speaks
Still, something wasn’t working.
At one point, I held onto a “safe” idea: keep the background minimal so the words remain central. It seemed right, but the work felt flat, as if something essential was missing.
Then it clicked: the background isn’t neutral: it’s a symbol of society, and society is never silent. The words represent identity. The background becomes the system around it: a structure that both supports and confines. Identity exists within something that is constantly shaping it, defining it.
That realization changed everything. The process shifted from making the work “look right” to making tension visible. Maybe that’s why it took so many attempts—because identity isn’t clean. It forms through trials, mistakes, and the constant negotiation between who we are and how we are seen.
In the next post, I’ll share how each phrase took its final form — and how these ideas translated into the finished pieces.
