Art – Norveilex.com

Alright, here we go—let's talk about abstract art. It’s that bizarre visual language that whispers to some, shouts at others, and leaves everyone else wondering if they accidentally walked into a toddler's art show. Don’t worry, confusion is part of the package. You’re here because you want to explore the madness, and honestly, I respect that. Most people take one look at a Jackson Pollock and decide to go back to their regularly scheduled programming of decorative ceramic roosters. But you? You want to throw some paint, confuse your relatives, and probably annoy your landlord. I love it. This blog post is for you—a beginner looking to find inspiration, techniques, and maybe a purpose behind what looks like an explosion of your aunt's bathroom color palette. Let's get into it. My Abstract Art Looks Like a Raccoon Danced in Paint—Is This Normal? Yes, absolutely. In fact, if you don’t end up with something resembling a raccoon rave, then are you even trying? The beauty of abstract art is that it makes everyone uncomfortable, and not in the thought-provoking way—more in the "Did I waste my money on paint for this?" kind of way. And that’s exactly where it gets interesting. The secret here is to release all your pent-up tension. Had a bad day? Got cut off in traffic? Use that energy. Imagine that your canvas is an ex who ghosted you. Or maybe that raccoon who raided your garbage bins last week. Throw paint like you're making an offering to the gods of chaos. If it feels violent, passionate, or a little too much like a crime scene—you’re doing it right. Also, don't forget to tell people your work is inspired by your "inner turbulence." No one knows what that means, but it sounds cool, and everyone will just nod and back away slowly. Techniques You Didn't Learn in Art School (Or Anywhere Else) Step one: Get a stick. No, seriously, just any stick will do. If you live near some nature, find one that speaks to you. Does it look like it could poke something uncomfortably? Perfect. Take that stick, dip it in paint, and then flail it around like you’re casting a spell that no one asked for. Art is about gestures, and nothing says "abstract artist" quite like an aggressive stick. Another technique that will win you some sideways glances is the mighty Foot Stomp. Forget brushes; they’re too traditional, and they come with expectations like "control" and "technique." Instead, pour your paints on the floor, and just stomp right through it. There’s something uniquely primal about seeing your own foot marks in a painting. Not only are you expressing your creativity, but you’re also creating a perfect legal defense when people accuse you of making a mess. If you’re feeling especially edgy, introduce a household appliance into your process. Why not a toaster? Plug it in, toast some bread, dip that bread into paint, and slam it on the canvas. You’re probably wondering, "What on earth am I doing?" And that's precisely why it's brilliant. The more you confuse yourself, the better the final outcome. Inspiration: Milk, Cheese, and Other Random Stuff Need some inspiration? Look no further than your kitchen. Milk has all the curvy, runny dynamics you want in abstract art. Pour it on your canvas and watch as it interacts with paint. It’s going to smell awful soon, but that’s future-you's problem. Besides, what's art if it doesn't engage all the senses—including nausea? Cheese, now there's an underrated muse. The holes in Swiss cheese? Those are negative space at its finest. Use cheese to create shapes and impressions on your canvas. Is this bizarre? Yes. But now you can call yourself the 'Cheese Picasso,' which is honestly worth it just for the confusion it will cause. Then there’s mustard. Drip it like a Jackson Pollock if Jackson Pollock was having a backyard BBQ. Watch it dry, and let it oxidize. The color shifts over time—proving that even condiment art can be fancy if you just say it in a pretentious enough way. How to Pretend You Know What You're Doing When You Absolutely Don't One thing you need to understand is that no one understands abstract art—even the people who make it. You could show a piece to ten different people, and nine of them would make up something to sound smart. The tenth person? They’re going to call it garbage, but that person doesn’t know how to have fun. When asked to explain your work, just use words that have no measurable meaning. Try: "It’s about the interplay between memory and emotion." Or maybe: "I'm exploring the disconnect between societal expectations and internal rebellion." Basically, say anything that sounds like it belongs on a cocktail napkin at a failing gallery opening. Another trick? Throw in a reference to something vague, but historical. Say your painting is inspired by the fall of the Byzantine Empire. No one knows anything about that, and they'll just nod, impressed by your intellect. Bonus points if you can somehow tie in the phrase "late-stage capitalism." That’s always a crowd-pleaser at pretentious art gatherings. Art Supplies: Use What You've Got or Borrow from Your Neighbor (Without Asking) Art supplies can be pricey, and who has that kind of money lying around, especially after splurging on your latest existential crisis? Solution: steal—I mean, "borrow" supplies creatively. Your neighbor's garden hose? Fantastic for splattering paint across a huge canvas. Their rake? Wonderful for dragging across some wet paint in a manner that screams, "I have no idea what I’m doing, but it feels great." If you’re fresh out of things to steal from your neighbor, look to your own home. Got some expired makeup? Perfect. Use that mascara wand to create jagged lines of frustration. Eyeliner pencils are great for angry scribbles. Your landlord's half-empty paint cans from when they painted the apartment beige for the eighth time? Yeah, that’s yours now. The point is, don’t get caught up in what's "professional." Anything can be art supplies if you squint hard enough and ignore the warranty instructions. Titles: Why You Should Name Your Work Something That Makes Absolutely No Sense A key part of abstract art is naming your piece. This is your chance to shine and confuse. You can’t just call it "Untitled"; you need to make people question both your sanity and theirs. Consider naming your work something like, "The Metaphysical Persistence of Monday Mornings." Or, "Moth Whispering in a Vacuum." You could also go with something that sounds vaguely threatening, like "The Impending Demise of Tom’s Sandwich." If you can work a random number in there, even better. Nothing says enigmatic like a painting titled, "4,321 Shades of Regret." Numbers are just meaningless enough to keep people wondering if there’s a hidden code they’re supposed to decipher. Spoiler alert: there isn’t. It’s just what came to mind after you ate that weird cheese from earlier. The goal is to keep everyone guessing. If someone looks at your painting and says, "I don't get it," you've succeeded. Abstract art is not about making people understand—it’s about making them so bewildered that they pretend to get it to avoid looking dumb. Critiquing Your Own Art: Yes, You Need to Do This, Even If It Hurts Self-critique is vital in abstract art. But you don’t have to do it sober. Grab a bottle of whatever’s in your cabinet, pour yourself a glass, and sit down in front of your masterpiece. Stare at it like it owes you rent money. Squint your eyes until the colors blur. What do you see? If the answer is "a complete mess," great. You’re starting to understand abstract art. Ask yourself important questions, like: "Did I use enough green?" and "Should I add more of whatever this weird splatter is supposed to represent?" You’ll inevitably end up adding more paint, then regret it, then convince yourself it's better this way because "art is never truly finished." Congratulations, you’ve learned the golden rule of abstract art: it's done when you can’t afford more paint. Remember, the line between genius and disaster is incredibly thin—in this case, it's about as thin as the last layer of cheap paint you slapped on there. The best artists are the ones who stop just before setting their own work on fire. The "Is This Mold or Art?" Guide to Unexpected Mediums Sometimes you need to push boundaries, and by boundaries, I mean health codes. If you're really committed to being an abstract artist, you need to embrace the strange. Dig through your fridge and find something that looks... questionable. Expired yogurt? Perfect. It's time to turn that dairy disaster into a creative triumph. Slap that yogurt onto the canvas. Watch as it sags and cracks over time. Yes, it smells awful, but that’s part of the statement. It’s about embracing decay. Throw in some expired salsa, maybe a couple of eggs that have seen better days. The end result will be equal parts horrifying and captivating. Got some old bread? Rub it across the surface until it crumbles. The flakey texture adds to the mystery. Just don’t let anyone get too close—unless you’re trying to scare them away, in which case, mission accomplished. Mold, often seen as a sign to throw things away, is actually a beautiful texture creator. Let it grow, let it expand. It's unpredictable and alive. The message? Nature always finds a way, and usually, it finds a way to ruin your lunch. Don’t forget to add in spices. Grab some turmeric, paprika, maybe a hint of black pepper. Not only does this give texture, but it also adds a nice dusty, muted color scheme that screams, “this is an experience, not a meal.” The goal is to use your senses (even the ones you wish you could turn off) to create something completely confusing. To those brave enough to work with expired dairy products, know that you are an artist working on the edge of what humanity can stomach—both literally and metaphorically. This is the kind of bold creative energy that defines abstract art. You’re not afraid of a little smell, right? Good. Because nothing says commitment like a canvas that could potentially sprout life of its own. If you’re lucky, it might even inspire a new ecosystem. Abstract art for the win. Colors That Will Make People Question Your Sanity The best part about abstract art is that you can use the ugliest colors imaginable. If it looks like it should be left in the seventies, you’re on the right track. Take that off-putting olive green and pair it with a shade of pink so bright it makes you wince. The uglier, the better. You might think that colors should have harmony. No. This is abstract art, where harmony is the enemy. You need colors that scream, fight, and make observers physically uncomfortable. There’s a power in making something that just doesn’t sit well. Think maroon with neon green, mustard yellow with sky blue. The goal is visual confusion. Ever consider using metallics with pastels? You should. It doesn’t make any sense, but that’s exactly why you’re doing it. Metallic gold splattered across a pale lavender background says “I understand kitsch, and I embrace it without shame.” It’s about owning the weirdness. You know those colors that everyone hates? The ones that look like old hospital walls? Bring them in. A nice, depressing beige next to a vomit green is what true avant-garde work demands. Abstract art is not about making something pretty; it’s about making something undeniable, something that forces people to have an opinion—even if that opinion is disgust. Color theory might suggest that certain hues should not go together, but who cares? Throw some teal next to burgundy, then smear a line of baby-poop brown across the whole thing. You want your art to provoke, and nothing provokes like a color palette that has absolutely no business existing. Think about clashing patterns too—use plaid and polka dots, mix stripes with florals, but make sure they’re the most obnoxious versions of each. You’re not here to soothe the eye; you’re here to make it twitch. The more painful it is to look at, the more effective your piece will be. If someone puts their head in their hands and groans, you’ve succeeded. Your job is to attack the senses, not to lull them into complacency. Lean into the chaos. Remember, you’re not making art for a dentist’s waiting room. This isn’t about relaxation or calm. It’s about getting that raw, “oh god, what is that?” reaction. If it’s ugly enough to be unforgettable, you’re doing it right. Creating Texture with Destructive Objects Why limit yourself to brushes and traditional tools? Abstract art calls for destruction. Grab a chain, drag it across the canvas, and see what happens. Or maybe an old rake, something that’s definitely seen better days. Scratch it across the surface. That’s art, my friend. Ever broken a chair in frustration? Take a piece of it and press it into your work. Abstract art is an excellent way to exorcise your rage. There’s something beautiful in the fragments left over from destruction, and incorporating those bits gives your work a story—something chaotic, raw, and vaguely dangerous. Got a hammer? Perfect. Use it. Place the canvas on the ground, and pound on it until it caves in. Not only is it cathartic, but those cracks create unique patterns. It’s as much about the violence of the process as it is the outcome. Abstract art invites you to explore the boundary between creation and destruction. Consider using broken glass. Safety might be a concern, but honestly, art isn’t safe. Throw glass on the paint, grind it in, and see the shards add texture and edge to the piece. It’s about embracing danger, uncertainty, and a very real chance of injury. Nails, screws, a garden hoe—whatever’s lying around can be useful. If it looks like it belongs in a garage or junkyard, it belongs in your art. Drag, scrape, smash, pierce. Don’t think about it; just do it. The more unpredictable, the better. Chains leave gorgeous looping lines that feel oddly fluid, considering they’re made of metal. The juxtaposition of the cold, hard chain against the organic shapes it makes is exactly the kind of contradiction that makes abstract art shine. A fork? Great for etching into wet paint. A tennis ball? Dip it in paint and bounce it across the canvas. The imprints are chaotic, round, and fun. The only rule is that there are no rules—except maybe wearing safety goggles. Old car parts, bike chains, a wrench—there’s a limitless supply of household items that can be used to make art. The more destructive, the better. You’re not just painting; you’re wreaking havoc, and the result is a testament to the beauty in chaos. Want texture? Smack it. Scratch it. Slam it. That’s how you know you’re doing abstract art right. How to Justify The Lack of Symmetry: A Beginner's Guide to Overcompensating One of the first questions you’re going to get about your abstract art is, “But what does it mean?” The second is going to be, “Why is it so off-balance?” Well, you better get good at overcompensating, because nothing in abstract art is about balance, and that’s why you’re here. Symmetry is for boring people. It’s for those who can’t handle the raw unpredictability of asymmetry. You’re not here to satisfy anyone’s need for order. You’re here to confuse, disturb, and make people question if their eyes are broken. Embrace the chaos. It’s not unbalanced—it’s “visually liberated.” Start by saying things like, “Symmetry is oppressive. Asymmetry is freedom.” You’re an artist rebelling against the status quo. You’re pushing boundaries. The moment you mention freedom, everyone will back off and nod as if they understand. Another trick is to blame nature. Nature itself is beautifully chaotic—there’s no perfect symmetry in a forest, in a storm, in the way waves crash against the shore. Your art reflects the same kind of untamed, natural imbalance. It’s wild, it’s free, and if they don’t understand it, that’s their problem. Call your asymmetry “intentional imbalance.” Claim you’re capturing the unpredictable, untamed human experience. People will love that. Or just say you’re trying to represent the feeling of never being fully stable, of the constant shift in emotions. It’s about reflecting the inner world in all its fractured, messy beauty. You can also take a more aggressive approach. Point out that true beauty lies in flaws. Perfect symmetry is stale, while asymmetry forces people to confront the idea that there is beauty in imperfections. You’re challenging traditional concepts of beauty, which makes you avant-garde by default. If anyone insists on knowing why one side of the canvas is way more chaotic than the other, just look them dead in the eye and say, “Because life isn’t fair.” Then walk away. The best justification for abstract art is always something that sounds profound but is really just a non-answer. Claim it’s a statement on societal expectations. We all want balance in our lives, but the reality is, imbalance is natural. Your work is a visual representation of that fact. You’re an artist portraying the truth, and truth is never symmetrical. Ultimately, abstract art is about making people uncomfortable with the lack of control, and symmetry represents control. To be truly free, you must abandon any attempt at balance. That’s where true artistry lies—embracing the uncomfortable truth that nothing is perfectly even. Random Animals as Unwilling Collaborators Let’s talk about introducing an animal into your artistic process. Nothing says abstract art like an unpredictable collaborator that has no idea what’s going on. Got a cat? Great, let it walk across the canvas. Dip its paws in some paint and let nature do its thing. Neighborhood squirrel hanging around? Why not try and bribe it with some peanuts, then let it loose on your canvas? The little scratch marks, the unpredictable movement—pure, uninhibited chaos. Plus, squirrels have a raw energy that screams “abstract.” Just be careful they don’t try to take a bite out of your work. Dogs are fantastic collaborators as well. If you have one, get them involved. Cover the canvas with paint and throw their favorite ball onto it. Let them run across and make a mess. That’s true passion—an animal’s unfiltered joy turned into art. Birds are a little trickier, but if you can get one to fly low over your work, you might get some cool splatters and possibly some feathers stuck to the paint. Nothing says spontaneous expression like the random presence of animal influence. Fish? Why not? Got a fish tank? Dip a fish in non-toxic paint (for the love of art, be gentle), and let it swim across a glass sheet on top of your canvas. It’s absurd, but no one said art had to make sense. Even ants can be recruited. Let them crawl over small blobs of paint and track it around. It’s painstakingly slow, but the end result is unique. A true testament to patience—or lack thereof. You can even leave a canvas out overnight and see what wildlife might walk across it. Raccoons? Possums? Foxes? You could end up with anything. The beauty of collaborating with animals is that they don’t care about the rules of art—they make their own, and you just happen to be documenting it. Your painting should be a celebration of unpredictability, and what’s more unpredictable than an animal doing whatever it wants, no matter what you think it should do? Let them leave their mark. They’re your co-creators, and their contributions are just as valid as yours. If nothing else, it’ll be a lot harder for people to critique your work when they realize it’s not just your mess, but also a collection of paw prints, scratch marks, and random debris left by a highly confused creature. Embrace the collaboration. When to Stop Adding Paint (Hint: Never) The final rule of abstract art is knowing when to stop, which is actually never. You might think you’re done, but that’s just weakness talking. There’s always more paint to add, more layers to create, more chaos to throw into the mix. Some will say “less is more,” but those people clearly have no imagination. More is more. Pour another gallon of paint onto the canvas. Add more lines, more dots, more swirls. Cover everything until you forget what the original looked like. Layers are key. Paint over and over again until the entire piece is almost groaning under the weight of it all. You’re not just creating art; you’re creating something substantial, something that could potentially be used as a weapon due to its sheer heft. Try adding texture upon texture until the canvas can barely hold itself up. Sure, it might crack under the strain, but that’s part of the beauty. You want something that speaks to overindulgence, to going beyond what’s reasonable. Abstract art is about testing boundaries—if you’re wondering if you’ve added too much, you haven’t. You stop when you literally cannot add any more. Use your hands, your feet, a mop, whatever it takes to get more paint on there. The more layers, the more chaotic the story. The goal is excess. Art critics might call it “overworked,” but what do they know? They’re not brave enough to take it to this extreme. Keep going until you’re actually sick of looking at it, and even then, add a bit more. If your canvas is bulging, if the paint is dripping, if the smell is unbearable, then you’ve finally arrived. You’re at the precipice of absurdity, and that’s the essence of abstract art—going to a place where no sane artist would think to stop. Abstract art doesn’t end; it just reaches a point where you physically can’t add more, and that’s when you reluctantly lay down your tools. The final product is a true reflection of boundless creativity—or perhaps a stubborn refusal to quit. Either way, it’s art. Final Thoughts That Aren't Actually Final (Abstract Art Never Ends) Alright, so now you have a canvas covered in an inexplicable mess of colors, foot stomps, mustard swirls, and probably some crumbs from that bread you were flinging around earlier. Is it art? Yes. Will people get it? Absolutely not. And that’s the point. Abstract art is the ultimate "I don’t care if you like it" statement. It’s raw, it’s confusing, and it’s possibly a health hazard if you left any dairy products in there. If anyone questions you, just smile knowingly and say, "It’s about the fragility of the human spirit." That usually shuts them up. And there you have it—your glorious introduction to creating abstract art. Now go forth, grab a stick, throw some cheese at a canvas, and confuse the living daylights out of everyone who walks into your living room. Trust me, they’ll thank you for it… eventually.