Sam Safari

I don’t paint for decoration.
I don’t paint to please.
I paint because I would not survive otherwise.

For years I tried to live the way the world expects: to study, to build, to present myself acceptably. I wore the mask, played the role, endured the silence inside me. The longer I lived like that, the more I collapsed. Isolation, depression, the weight of life — it didn’t let up.

That collapse wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t romantic. It was raw survival. And in that place, I found something: painting.

It didn’t start with oil or canvas or tools of tradition. I didn’t have money. I started with what I had — an iPad. I had no plan, no sketches, no style. I let my hand move. Color after color, figure after figure, storm after storm. My subconscious took over. The grief, the pressure, the silence finally had a place to go.

Painting became more than expression. It became the only way I could breathe. I created hundreds of works in a few months — not to be prolific, but because something inside me refused to die quietly.

Before painting, I explored architecture, calligraphy, theater, photography. Each gave me fragments of language, ways to see. Painting brought it all together — for the first time, I felt those pieces connect, and I f...