The Beauty of Breaking: Folds, Cuts, and Personal Taste in Art

Hey, Art Lover!

This issue explores the intriguing interplay between rebellion, structure, and personal taste in the world of contemporary art. First, we dive into Vanha Lam’s mesmerizing work, where each fold in her work questions tradition with a touch of elegance and architectural chaos. Then, we revisit Lucio Fontana, the artist famous for slashing his canvases, redefining spatial art with cuts that challenge the very concept of what a painting should be. Finally, taste in art—a personal preference is not only valid but also rooted in deep biological responses. Together, these stories remind us that art is an exploration of the unexpected, whether it’s in the folds, the slashes, or the gut feeling that tells you what resonates.

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Vanha Lam: Rebelling with Elegance

The first time I saw Vanha Lam’s work, I was drawn in by the elegance of her folds. I know—“elegance of her folds” sounds like the kind of thing you’d hear in a discussion about hotel corners, but this is different. Vanha’s work, full of creases, holds that unmistakable energy of breaking something just to see what it could become. There’s a subversive playfulness that reminded me of Lucio Fontana’s slashed canvases. It’s as if she’s asking, “What lies beyond tradition, and what happens if I just…fold it?”

This all came up while I was researching a collection for a client who appreciates abstract art. Vanha’s work emerged as an unexpected choice—she’s the kind of artist who makes you wonder whether what you’re seeing was an accident or the result of some profound universal law. Or maybe just a rebellious streak against good old-fashioned geometry. It’s hard to say.

Vanha is a San Francisco-based artist whose architectural background heavily informs her work. This influence explains why her canvases seem to have survived a gentle but intentional earthquake. She calls her process a “controlled collapse,” a term that fits her art perfectly. Her work feels alive and in mid-transformation, each fold embodying a negotiation between order and chaos.

Vanha’s art has an aura of paradox. On one hand, she has a clear fascination with structure, shaped by her architectural training. On the other, she’s perfectly content to take that structure, crumple it like yesterday’s to-do list, and see what happens. She’s rebelling against the very design principles she’s learned—taking geometric forms, folding and distorting them, and making us reconsider what we think of as “complete.” It’s almost as though she’s creating architectural ruins in reverse.

When you look at her work, you see forms that fold into themselves, hinting at a cycle of regeneration. Each piece feels like a reminder that every tidy structure we build will eventually break down, perhaps evolving into something even more intriguing.

One of the most captivating aspects of Vanha’s art is the ambiguity it brings. Abstraction in art often stands the test of time because, let’s face it, color and form never really go out of style. But Vanha introduces an often-overlooked element: ambiguity.

There’s something oddly reassuring about Vanha Lam’s work. Each fold feels like a small rebellion against order, comforting in its own way, reminding us she’s always toeing that line.

In the end, Vanha’s art embodies a balance between tradition and innovation, precision and disorder. It’s the kind of work that keeps you thinking, that makes you step closer, tilt your head, and wonder if you’re catching a glimpse of something hidden in the folds. And maybe that’s the magic of it: you’re never quite sure if you’ve found what you’re looking for, but you’re happy to keep searching.

Lucio Fontana: The Man Who Stabbed His Way into Art History

There’s something oddly satisfying about Lucio Fontana’s art. Imagine a guy with a canvas in front of him, a knife in hand, and a slight smirk, thinking, “Why paint when I can slice?” And slice he did. Let’s explore why this man’s “stabbed canvas” approach still captivates audiences today.

Fontana was born in Argentina but spent much of his life in Italy. His early works? Entirely traditional. He sculpted, painted, and even dabbled in ceramics. With artist parents, it’s no wonder he thought he could play with the concept of art itself and get away with it. But in the late 1940s, Fontana decided that traditional art forms were a bit passé. Why bother with a brush when there were other tools around?

That’s when the real fun started.

Fontana began experimenting with unconventional methods—namely by punching, slicing, and gouging his canvases. He called this new approach “Spatialism.” Because apparently, when you stab a canvas, you’re not just ruining a perfectly good piece of linen; you’re exploring “the concept of space.” It was a bold move, and like any good art movement, it left people both intrigued and a little uncomfortable.

Imagine standing in a gallery. You see a white canvas, flawless and pure—until you get closer and realize it’s full of neat, deliberate slashes. Fontana called these works his Concetto Spaziale series, which translates to “Spatial Concepts.” He wanted to break the barrier between the two-dimensional space of the canvas and the viewer. And what better way to do that than by, quite literally, breaking the canvas?

The cuts are more than just lines; they’re like portals, glimpses into something beyond the surface. This concept was revolutionary. Fontana was essentially weaponizing the canvas, yet people were mesmerized.

At first glance, you might wonder how a slashed canvas made its way into prestigious galleries and museums. Shouldn’t something that looks like a vandalized painting be stashed in the back room with the mop buckets? The answer lies in Fontana’s perspective. His work wasn’t about the physical act of cutting but what the cut represented. It was a statement on the limitations of the canvas, a critique of traditional art forms, and an exploration of what lies beyond.

Fontana saw himself more as a scientist than an artist, conducting experiments on his canvases to reveal the hidden world behind the surface. The slashes weren’t random acts of aggression; they were intentional gestures meant to engage viewers in a conversation about space, form, and depth. And he succeeded. There’s something captivating about a torn canvas, as if it holds secrets we’ll never fully understand.

Fontana’s work is often described as violent, but he argued that his slashes were anything but destructive. Instead, he saw them as creative—a way to break through the confines of traditional art and explore something more abstract. In his own words, he was searching for “a new dimension, a new space.”

Fontana’s work changed the game. By challenging traditional forms, he opened the door for other artists to break rules, push boundaries, and, yes, occasionally ruin a few canvases along the way.

So, what’s the point of slashing up a canvas? And why does anyone care today? Fontana’s work matters because it forces us to reconsider what art can be. It’s a reminder that art doesn’t have to be pretty or perfect to be meaningful. Sometimes, it can be rough, raw, and unsettling.

If Fontana’s slashed canvases teach us anything, it’s that art doesn’t have to follow a set of rules. His work reminds us that sometimes, to create something new, you have to be willing to destroy what’s already there. You don’t need to understand Fontana’s spatial theories or the philosophy behind Spatialism to appreciate the audacity of his art.

So, next time you see a Fontana, resist the urge to reach for the tape and “fix” it. Just appreciate it for what it is—a rebellion against the predictable, a challenge to think differently, and a reminder that sometimes, the simplest gestures leave the deepest cuts.

Trust Your Taste: Why Your Gut Knows More About Art Than You Think

Let’s talk about taste—the kind that kicks in when you see a piece of art and your brain just goes, “Yes!” or, “Are we being punked?” Taste is deeply personal, quietly powerful, and backed by more brain science than you might think. So let’s dig into why your taste matters, why you should trust it, and what your brain is up to when it’s admiring a work of art.

Some might think taste is some kind of social currency or cultural flair, but it turns out it’s hardwired. Taste lives in your brain, and it’s busy. There’s an area of the brain called the ventral striatum, responsible for processing pleasure and reward. When you look at a piece of art you like, that little brain region lights up like a Christmas tree. That’s why certain pieces make you feel good, calm, or inspired.

Some researchers even claim we’re biologically inclined to find certain visual characteristics appealing, like symmetry and contrast. That’s why some compositions feel balanced, while others just seem “off” for no apparent reason.

When it comes to art, there’s no right or wrong taste. Some people are Van Gogh fans, while others vibe with something completely different—maybe minimalist line drawings or chaotic collages. Those preferences aren’t just quirks; they’re expressions of what resonates with you personally.

Research has shown that personal preferences in art are shaped by everything from childhood memories to cultural background and even personality traits.

One of the most interesting brain quirks that influences our taste is the mere exposure effect. This concept, introduced by social psychologist Robert Zajonc in the 1960s, suggests that people tend to develop a preference for things simply because they’re familiar. This is why we love a song more the fifth time we hear it—or, in the case of art, why we might warm up to a piece that initially baffled us. Sometimes, it’s just about getting used to something enough for it to feel like “yours.”

What’s fascinating is that our brains don’t even need conscious awareness to form these preferences. In one study, people were shown random images at speeds too fast to consciously register. Later, when shown the same images again, they preferred the ones they’d “seen” before—even though they had no memory of them. Translation? Sometimes, taste is about letting things marinate, giving your subconscious a little time to work its magic.

Here’s a hot take: if you love a piece, lean into that. Trust it. It’s your brain giving you a thumbs-up. Sure, some critic somewhere might hate it, but unless they’re paying your bills, their opinion doesn’t really matter. And besides, taste is dynamic—it evolves as you do. Your taste reflects where you are in life.

At the end of the day, taste is personal, complex, and always right. Trust it. Lean into it. Don’t second-guess what art moves you or makes you feel connected to the world around you. Taste is as unique as a fingerprint.

So go ahead. Buy the art you love, fill your walls with pieces that make you happy, and let them remind you every day of who you are and what makes you feel alive.

On a Personal Note…

Election Day is this Tuesday, and it’s bound to be a nail-biter! Make sure to cast your vote. Fun fact: on November 5, 1872, Susan B. Anthony made history by illegally voting in the presidential election. She was arrested and fined $100—a fee she famously refused to pay.

See you next week!

Pato