Abstract art can be polarizing. Some art lovers dismiss it as meaningless, while others build entire collections around it.
I’ve often reflected on my own attraction to abstraction and realized it comes from my comfort with ambiguity—the idea that something meaningful can emerge from what appears to be “nothing.” I love defining the mundane, telling stories through ordinary or inert items, and bringing blank canvases to life. The ability to imagine what others might not immediately see is what makes abstraction feel so alive to me.
My journey into abstract art grew out of guilt. I used to tear figurative images from magazines for my collages, then feel uneasy discarding the rest. So, I assigned myself a “stretch project”: create something from the leftover pages. I began tearing, arranging, and reinventing those colorful fragments on paper, wood, and canvas. Those discarded pages gave to birth of a new creative language.
Before I ever made my own abstract pieces, I was fascinated by the genre. I admired artists like Alma Thomas, Jack Whitten, Sam Gilliam, Clyfford Still, Howardena Pindell, Helen Frankenthaler, Rick Lowe, Stanley Whitney, Joan Mitchell, Mildred Thompson, William T. Williams, and Norman Lewis. Their mastery of color drew me in—color always moves me (and yes, blue remains my favorite). Seeing how they shaped emotion through color inspired me to define my own language in collage abstraction.
My smaller abstract works have evolved into a growing, vibrant body of larger-scale creations. I find joy in the speed of making the smaller pieces, resisting the urge to overthink or overwork them. I let intuition lead.
To me, abstraction feels a little taboo. Viewing it is like widening your camera’s aperture—it forces you to see art more broadly, more curiously. In that way, I feel connected to the abstract masters who came before me. They were driven by curiosity and passion, which are also the forces behind my work. My light, like theirs, will keep growing brighter—and my art will continue to take up space across the globe.
Collage by Heather Polk, “What is Taboo? 2.9.2026”, 2026, torn magazine pages on watercolor paper, 8 in x 8 in
