The Process: One Image, Hundreds of Stories

Every piece starts with an idea. At least, that’s the plan.

I usually have a concept in my head, a sense of what I want the artwork to say, and perhaps an idea of what the finished composition might look like. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know that the original plan is more of a suggestion than a contract.

My mosaic-style artwork begins with a larger image, built from hundreds of smaller images, each with its own history, personality, and potential meaning. Some support the main image. Others add context, create contrast, or introduce an entirely different point of view. Occasionally, an image finds its way into the composition simply because it feels right, even if I can’t immediately explain why. I’ve learned not to argue with those moments. They’re often worth exploring.

The story isn’t always the story you think you’re seeing.

On the surface, a piece might appear to tell one particular story. Look a little closer, though, and you may begin to discover something else. The smaller images can complement the larger image, challenge it, or create an unexpected connection. They can suggest a different meaning altogether.

What interests me most is that the story doesn’t belong entirely to me. I bring my experiences, opinions, and perspective to the work. You bring yours. The images become a starting point for a conversation, and what you take away may be very different from what I had in mind when I began. That’s not a problem. That’s part of the point.

Finding the Bigger Picture

Sometimes the process begins with discovering the large, overarching image. Other times, I find myself collecting smaller images first, looking for connections and relationships that might eventually suggest a larger composition.

Scale plays a big role. The size of the finished piece, the size of the primary image, and the scale of the individual tiles all influence how the work is experienced. A large, dominant image can establish an immediate impression, while the smaller images add complexity and invite a closer look. The balance between the two determines whether a piece feels bold and direct, layered and intricate, or somewhere in between.

Of course, the composition rarely stays exactly where I thought it would. New images suggest new possibilities. A color works better somewhere else. An unexpected relationship develops between two images. Something that seemed essential at the beginning may no longer belong.

The work evolves. So do I.

A Little Digital Alchemy

There’s a technical side to the process, too. I build my digital files so individual images can be placed into a single square tile or repeated across multiple tiles throughout the composition. That flexibility allows me to experiment with scale, repetition, color, opacity, and placement.

These aren’t simply technical adjustments. They help determine the visual hierarchy of the piece—what stands forward, what recedes, what catches your attention first, and what waits quietly in the background. Changes in opacity and coloration can create depth, shift emphasis, and allow an image to become part of the larger composition without losing its own identity entirely.

I’m constantly balancing the individual images against the overall picture. Each tile needs to contribute something, but the larger image still has to work. It’s a bit like managing a room full of people who all have something to say. The trick is making sure they contribute to the conversation without all shouting at once.

Knowing When It’s Finished

This may be the hardest part of the entire process.

Sometimes a piece comes together with surprising ease. The composition clicks, the images find their places, and the work seems to know where it’s going before I do. Those are wonderful days. Naturally, they can also create unrealistic expectations for the next piece.

Other times, the work fights back.

I might reach a point where the digital composition feels complete, but something is missing. The piece may need more color, less color, more contrast, or a little breathing room. It might need paint applied to the surface to bring certain elements forward, quiet others, or connect the individual images into a more cohesive whole.

And sometimes, I simply don’t know what it needs.

That’s when a piece might find itself hanging on my studio wall for a while. I live with it. I look at it in passing. I ignore it, occasionally on purpose. Eventually, something may reveal itself—a change in color, a painted detail, or perhaps the realization that I was trying too hard to solve a problem that wasn’t really there.

Completion isn’t always a decision I can explain. It’s a feeling. At some point, the work tells me it has reached the place it needs to be. I can’t always tell you exactly when that happens, but I generally know when it doesn’t.

And yes, sometimes the process ends in frustration rather than a breakthrough. That’s part of it, too. Not every experiment works. Not every idea deserves to survive. But even a failed direction can teach me something useful for the next piece.

The Part That Keeps Me Going

If I’m not exploring, experimenting, and pushing myself into unfamiliar territory, I’m probably just repeating the same thing over and over again. I may get better at repeating it, but I’m not necessarily making better art.

I want each piece to offer something I haven’t quite figured out before. I want to discover new relationships between images, find different ways to tell a story, and leave enough room for the unexpected to happen. The process should challenge me, occasionally frustrate me, and, if I’m lucky, surprise me.

Because that’s the satisfying part of creating art. You start with an idea, but you don’t always know where it will take you. Along the way, the images begin to speak to one another. New meanings emerge. The work becomes something more than the sum of its parts.

And sometimes, somewhere in the middle of trying to tell a story, I discover something I hadn’t realized I wanted to say.

Maybe that’s the real reason I keep doing this. I’m not just making artwork to tell a story. I’m making artwork to discover one.

And if you find a story of your own along the way, even better. I may have started the conversation, but you get to decide what it means.

Art Tells a Story.