The word shaman comes from the Tungusic languages of Siberia and means “one who knows.” This knowledge is not learned through books. It comes through direct contact with what lies beyond the ordinary, often through difficulty. It is a relationship with the unknown.

At the beginning of human history, there was no separation of roles. The same figure carried the functions of healer, artist, guide, and keeper of meaning. He entered the darkness of the cave, moved through altered states, and returned with images, leaving them on the walls.

Later, these roles separated, but the mechanism remained. Perception has depth. Some enter states where reality shifts into a field of images, presences, and meanings. Those who move through that space and return became what we call shamans.

Across cultures, this process is described as a “shamanic illness”—a condition that compels entry. It is not chosen in a simple way. It is a weight that must be carried, and not everyone can withstand it.

I recognize this in my own life.

At times, the impulse to create becomes almost unbearable—a pressure in the mind, a heat that demands release. If I do not give it form, there is no rest. I need to carve into wood, spread paint with a palette knife, shape clay, or make a wide, forceful gesture with a brush. Only then does the pressure subside. Only then does it feel aligned with why I am here.

This is a contemporary form of the same condition. Either you enter and bring something out, or it begins to break you from within. Creative energy requires direction.

Both the artist and the shaman enter a space where ordinary reality loosens its hold. Remaining there is not enough. What matters is what is carried back—what can be held, integrated, and expressed.

The shaman works through the body, voice, rhythm, and form—through costume, symbols, ritual objects. The artist works through line, color, object, and gesture.

The modern shaman does not stop being an artist. He shapes atmosphere, image, and space. The artist does not stop being a shaman. He becomes a mediator between inner and outer worlds, developing a method—through sound, silence, and state.

It is one space, entered in different ways. The method defines the language. The language begins to shape what is perceived.

Among young shamans, there is a practice known as a vision quest—a trial of isolation, often without food or support, where a person seeks direct connection with nature. In that state, a sign appears. A vision confirms the connection.

When I began returning to Cold Spring, when fire erased my studio, when I moved through unstable spaces like Unruly, I understood I was passing through a similar process. Learning to endure. Learning to return with something that can be shared.

I needed immersion in these states to understand what I was doing.

Gradually, my visual language shifted. Sharp angles disappeared. Fragmented lines dissolved. The paintings began to flow. A sense of breathing appeared. The energy became continuous.

This is how Tribal Expressionism emerged—a language beneath words.

Symbols began to form, not as decoration, but as allies. Elements that hold connection.

In the beginning, everything was covered in paint—clothes, objects, the entire studio. It was uncontrolled, open, without boundary. Anyone entering became part of it. Over time, I began painting objects directly. Clothing, shoes, furniture—everything entered the process. The environment stopped being background and became part of the work.

The method changed as well. Movement narrowed. One thin brush remained. Everything concentrated into that point.

Before I begin, I gather the state. Repetitive sound. Rhythm. At a certain point, the mind loosens. Even if noise remains, I continue. Then the shift comes.

There is entry into a space where ordinary perception destabilizes, and a return with something that can be transmitted. It is not always understood, but it is recognized.

To live as an artist requires endurance. A strong psyche. The ability to move through instability—external and internal—without collapsing. To step beyond familiar limits and remain intact.

The artist is an explorer of consciousness, standing at the edge of perception. One who enters silence to encounter form before it appears. A discoverer of states. One who brings something back from beyond language.

The shaman does the same. He enters and returns. Holds the experience. Integrates it so it does not destroy him.

When I stand before the canvas now, both roles are present. I am searching for form, and I am entering the unknown to bring something back.

The artist and the shaman are different names for the same movement—one that goes into darkness and returns with light.