Something New: Freedom is in The Fire

 

This piece began as a quick sketch in my notebook. No plan, no pressure, just a moment where I sat down and drew what was in front of me. Later, when I looked at it again, I realized it held more than I expected. I cleaned it up and decided it was finished.

What I like most about it is the reminder it carries. Work does not stop being hard just because you love it. Some days it feels like pushing uphill, even when the drive is there. But within that effort, there can also be peace. Sitting still, noticing details, putting them down line by line, it becomes a practice in mindfulness.

This sketch is rough, but it feels whole because it captured that balance: peace within the chaos, quiet within the push forward. That is why I am sharing it as a finished piece. Not because it is perfect, but because it is honest.

Art is where I learn that presence can be enough. A single page in a notebook can carry as much weight as a polished piece if it holds the truth of the moment it came from.

Work In Progress: The Heartbreak will be Televised V2.6

 

Lately I’ve been reading about dark psychology and influence, and one idea that caught my attention is the rule of reciprocity. At its core, it’s the notion that when someone gives, the other person feels compelled to give something back. It’s one of those hidden forces shaping how we interact, often without us realizing it.

In my current work in progress, I’ve been roughing in the tree bark and the heart. The bark feels protective—layer upon layer, textured and timeworn. The heart is raw, exposed, and alive. Together, they mirror the tension between giving and withholding, between vulnerability and defense.

Art itself carries this same rule. Every time I put something out into the world, I’m offering a piece of myself. What comes back is unpredictable—a comment, a connection, a sense that someone else understood what I was trying to say. That exchange may not be equal, but it matters. Without it, creating can feel like sending signals into a void.

The rule of reciprocity can be used to manipulate, but in art, it feels different. It’s not about obligation. It’s about resonance. When I share honestly, I’m not demanding anything in return, but I remain aware that something may echo back. That rhythm—of giving and receiving—becomes part of the work itself.

As I move forward with this piece, I’m holding onto that idea: the bark and the heart, the protective and the exposed, each offering something. And in time, something always comes back.

Work In Progress: The Heartbreak will be Televised V2.5

 

Doubt has been a constant companion in both my work and my life. It shows up whenever I’m faced with choices that don’t have clear answers. At times, it pushes me into motion, fueling a burst of energy and progress. Other times, it slows me down and reminds me to wait until clarity arrives on its own.

This piece is my way of holding that tension between action and stillness. Recently, I made a significant change by cutting out an element that didn’t belong. It was a move born from uncertainty, but it created a sense of clarity that carried me forward.

Not every decision is about doing more. Sometimes the most powerful step is subtraction, or even choosing to pause. This WIP is both an artwork and a reminder to myself: doubt isn’t failure. It’s part of the process, and clarity comes through it.

Thanks for following along with my journey. You can see more of my work at www.visionsbyrossw.com or visit my store at ocdthreepio.redbubble.com.

Work In Progress: The Heartbreak will be Televised V2.4

 

I’ve begun adding color to the bark of the tree in my current piece. I find myself second guessing the choices. Do they fit? Do they hold the right weight? I may need to revisit them.

For me, this is an ongoing reminder that to change your mind is not always a step backwards. Sometimes new information comes to light. Sometimes circumstances shift. What felt right yesterday might no longer serve today.

And yet, that isn’t failure. It is resilience. The ability to keep moving forward even as you adapt, to remain in motion without being paralyzed by the need for perfection.

Art mirrors life in this way. We make choices, we refine them, we rebuild if we must. Progress is rarely a straight line. But the willingness to adjust, to allow change and still keep marching forward—that is its own kind of strength.

That’s what I’m practicing here. In the colors of the bark, in the small steps of this work, and in the larger story of my process as an artist.

Thanks for reading, and for following along as this piece unfolds. If you’d like to see more, check out my store, leave a comment, or share this post with someone who might need the reminder too.

Work In Progress: The Heartbreak will be Televised V2.3

 

The roughing-in of the Bifrost is complete. The colors are set, carving a bridge that rushes forward toward the vault door at the heart of the piece. I’ve also added a third smokestack, echoing the skyline here in Halifax, where the Tufts Cove Power Facility stands as a landmark. From the organic-mechanical heart rise three stacks of its own. The bark of the central tree has begun to take shape, holding leaves made of skulls, arranged like ornaments.

This work is a reflection of process—not just in art, but in life.

When I look at my own rhythm, I see cycles. I can push myself into periods of intensity: earlier mornings, more art, more posts, more engagement with life. I summon energy from frustration and channel it into progress. For a while, it works. I feel like I’m moving forward. But inevitably, the pace catches up with me. Burnout follows. And then comes retreat.

Maybe you’ve felt this too. That cycle of effort, crash, recovery, repeat.

But here’s the truth I’ve learned: even in burnout, there are gains. Even in the quiet, the work leaves its mark. Analytics climb slowly, posts build momentum, and art becomes its own record of what I’ve lived through. Progress doesn’t always arrive in waves of change. Sometimes it arrives brick by brick, post by post, one small act of creation at a time.

Rome wasn’t built in a day. And neither is a life.
It is built in moments. Habits. Micro-actions.
Sometimes slow. Sometimes fast. But always built.

That’s what this piece reminds me of. A reminder that even if the heartbreak is televised, even if the burnout feels inevitable, the act of showing up—again and again—still creates something lasting.

Work In Progress: The Heartbreak will be Televised V2.2

 

The foreground is taking shape and with it, the Bifrost. Not the rainbow bridge of gods, but a high-speed collision course for modern love. It rushes in from the front of the frame, heading straight for the vault door of the heart.

This bridge is about that anxious, magnetic rush of chemistry at the start of something new. The part where we jump in headfirst. But then? Slam. A sealed door.

Not because the love isn’t real. Not because we don’t care.
But because of how much is at stake — economically, emotionally, logistically.

In this age, letting someone in isn’t just about vulnerability. It can be destabilizing.
Even when we want to open up, even when we believe it could work, there’s a weight pressing down on our lives that holds the door shut.

That’s the thought behind this part of the piece.
A superhighway to love, sealed by reality.

It reflects how quickly things can begin — how chemistry or attraction can launch us forward. But also how, in reality, so many people hit a wall not because love is lacking, but because the risks are real. Letting someone in means opening up to disruption, instability, and vulnerability. It asks you to share your space, your time, your habits, your fears. And that’s a tall order in the world we live in now.

Economic pressure.
Past experience.
Burnout.
Self-protection.

The vault door is not always about rejection — it’s often about survival.

But none of this means love is impossible.
It just means that reaching the heart might take more.

More trust.
More communication.
More intentionality.
More patience.
Maybe even more planning than passion.

Still, the bridge exists. The path remains.
Even if we don't cross it at lightspeed.