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Alright, so I had painted a single seated figure. Big deal. Well—actually, for me, it was a big deal. But something started working in me. Could I push the concept further? Could I bring more movement, more physicality, into the figure while still telling a story?
I thought back to my figure drawing days. I used to love sketching ballet dancers—their poses are so extreme they force you to focus on movement and gesture rather than perfect accuracy. But I didn’t want to paint another ballet dancer. I had already done a few sketches some time ago and felt a bit weary of that theme.
So I took a different direction. I decided to paint a pole dancer. Not in the glamorous, dodgy way the word might immediately suggest, but in a way that acknowledges the strength and discipline the art form demands. I couldn’t do what they do—and trust me, no one would want to watch me try. It’s exhausting, exacting, and like any art, it takes relentless practice.
That’s what sparked the core idea: What happens when the crowd is gone? When no one is watching?
I kept thinking of a line from the song Caution by The Killers:
“Mama was a dancer and that’s all that she knew,
‘Cause when you live in the desert, that’s what pretty girls do.”
That lyric lingered. It gave me a setting. A theme. A woman alone in a gritty, unglamorous environment—not performing, just training. Not for anyone’s gaze. For herself. A moment of power, of ownership. A woman doing her thing, because it’s hers to do.
There’s a second painting I keep circling in my mind—the same woman, high on the pole, but suspended in a moment of quiet reflection. Maybe she’s resting. Maybe she’s preparing. There’s stillness, but there’s energy under the surface. I don’t know exactly what it would be yet—but I know it’s there, waiting. Like her.