Literature

There’s no shyness here. The face meets us head-on; full-frontal, unapologetic. It’s a kind of portrait you rarely see beyond youth: bold without explanation, watchful yet self-possessed. The eyes don’t give much away, but they don’t look away either. There’s power in that.

This is a painting about surface, not superficiality, but surface as tension, as theatre. What you see is vivid, immediate: blocks of orange, teal, crimson, and gold slicing across bone and muscle. Paul’s brushwork is muscular but swift, almost improvisational. The background thrums with movement, but the head stays steady, like a photograph resisting blur. You feel the energy of someone still forming, not because he lacks clarity, but because he is choosing what to withhold.

There’s swagger here, yes. But it’s not arrogance. It’s the confidence of someone still close to the rawness of becoming: a man testing how he might be seen, without quite showing his hand. A portrait not of ego, but of potential.

This man doesn’t hide, but nor does he offer certainty. The mystery isn’t what he’s thinking. It’s what he knows and isn’t yet telling.

This isn’t a portrait you solve. It’s one you live with. It changes, depending on where you’re standing or what kind of day you’ve had. Some works speak for their sitter. This one allows the sitter to speak when they choose, and what they say may just depend on you. And that makes it unforgettable.