The Invisible Hand — Art Insight
So I have come to a point in my artistic career that it’s time to explain what formed the artist before you, and the way I can do that is to go back to the start. And plus, I need to get this off my chest to move forward — to stick a post in the ground, a marking of new beginnings.
The last twelve years or so have been a frantic blur, and explaining the things that were happening to me through art at the time was impossible. They were so wild and fast that I myself had trouble keeping up. And when I did try to explain, I would get one of those looks — eyes widen, head tilts, mouth stretches — that look of what the hell are you on about?
The very first major moment was at TAFE in my second year. I had decided to create a piece about divine love — something bright to paint. Then, as I started, it took a deep dive into divine choice. This was the first piece that transported me to another place. I was no longer in the classroom. I floated in a dark space, surrounded by what I perceived as slightly glowing cubes.
Not knowing where I was or what was happening, I focused on the cubes and realized they were choices — that I was in the space of divine choice. Upon that moment of realization, every single cube opened, and I was overwhelmed with information. This snapped me back to the classroom. That moment disoriented me for weeks until I regained my senses.
Another significant moment at TAFE was a three-piece body of work inspired by a Reiki teaching about extremes and the balanced middle: the masculine, the feminine, and the “I Am.” While working on the feminine, the piece was pure beauty at its finest. But then more layers were added, and we slightly went to war. This is where I remembered humility. Even now, I can see the bruises — but it is still fiery and beautiful.
I have endured many journeys like this. At the start, I would fully disappear. I’d stand in front of a blank canvas, and by the time I returned, a work of art would be in front of me — and I would think, wow, how did that happen? Eventually, I wanted to understand more, which took me to war within myself and the canvas.
In those moments of disappearing, it was Psy coming through, while I tried to stay conscious and navigate whatever space the work required. This led me to personal depths I never thought possible, and some I nearly didn’t come back from. I can truly say: art saved my life.
When I was at my lowest, the canvas was always there. No matter how much abuse I threw at it, it stood strong. Psy and the canvas were the one thing truly there for me — no matter the time of day or month of the year. But in doing so, we went to war. Psy wanted to keep dragging me down to the depths further, even when I was so broken, but Psy dragged me, kicking and screaming, sometimes throwing me into the lion’s den. Psy stayed by my side, reflecting, even when I didn’t feel it.
During this time, I faced parts of myself expressed in a three-piece body of work: Cackling Jack, on my anxiety; Scapegoat, on how others made me feel; and The Angry Inner Adolescent, born from an intense trip, transforming madness into the anger of my younger self, enclosed in a metal mask.
One of my next curiosities was: how thin is the thin grey line? Could it be wide if the two opposing sides were? Could it be as small as the space between your fingers when we think they touch? This exploration took me to a microscopic state where time and space warped.
My mind wanders a little as I revisit these spaces and giggle. I hear: “They’re going to think you’re on acid.” Yes, I’ve tried psychedelics, but these were strictly art-induced moments. I have a very visual mind.
Later, I entered my pointillism era, reducing work to its simplest form to explore colour and false colour. During this experimentation, I wondered: what does the boundary of the mind look like? Where is it? How long does it take to find? I discovered many boundaries, each different, each with a new degree of difficulty. To my surprise, I did this quite a few times, and every time the boundaries were different.
Eventually, I grew bored of the exercise — or so I thought. That part of my mind continued to wander, until one day I physically felt disoriented, floating for several days. Then a voice said: paint. And I did — creating Space Turtle.
While creating this piece, I entered a space I had never felt before: the darkest dark but the brightest bright. There was no direction — no up, no down, left, right, diagonal, no nothing, but somehow everything. There was no me — no body, no being, no sense of self. A space of nothingness, yet everything. Warm, like a hug. Not home, but home. A connection to source, beyond human construction.
After this journey, Psy manifested into reality. I had finished a piece and went to sign it, and instead of writing JPE, my hand automatically wrote Psy — even though I tried to fight it. The true merging began. At first, even trying to write JPE on paper was almost impossible. Then came Life Is a Mystery.
During its creation, I experienced my first true collaboration: sometimes I was taken away, sometimes I observed from the back of my skull, watching my hands play on the canvas. Transitioning in and out became smooth and natural. I now see the piece as a self-portrait.
Today, Psy and I have finally made peace and merged fully. In some places and situations, I am Jason. In others, I go by Psy. I look forward to the rest of this artistic journey.