Veins of Obsidian: The Alchemy of Surrendered Chaos

Veins of Obsidian: The Alchemy of Surrendered Chaos reimagines Jackson Pollock’s  One: Number 31, 1950 as a ritual of raw creation, where the line between control and submission dissolves under the weight of instinct and gravity. In this conceptual vision, the very hand of creation—slick with liquid obsidian—emerges from the void, its fingers extended like fractured rivers, releasing rivulets of dark intention onto the trembling fabric of existence below. 

The upper half of the composition is a stark confrontation with purity and corruption. Against a field of untouched white, a singular human hand descends, half-drenched in thick, glistening black oil. The viscous fluid clings to the contours of each finger, then breaks away, falling in long, deliberate drips. These strands of liquid black are not merely droplets; they are the origin stories of entire universes, the prelude to the chaos that sprawls below. There is both violence and grace in the gesture—an offering of destruction, a blessing of transformation. 

Below this moment of suspended creation unfolds Pollock’s legendary tangle of motion— One: Number 31, 1950 . But here, it becomes a living terrain rather than a static canvas. His iconic splatters and strokes emerge like seismic tremors across a wasteland of cracked ivory and raw parchment. Each line twists with feral intelligence, coiling and unraveling like serpentine thoughts escaping the subconscious. This isn’t merely paint; it is the fossilized record of emotional storms, a cartography of impulses mapped across the brittle skeleton of time. 

The colors within this fractured world are restrained but volatile. Dominant tones of scorched umber and weathered sienna pulse beneath a fevered network of black and smoke-grey veining. Ivory surfaces rise in ghostly patches between the labyrinthine trails, like pale islands struggling to stay afloat amidst an ocean of relentless chaos. Occasional flashes of tarnished gold gleam beneath the layers, hidden embers of divinity buried deep within the mess of raw humanity. 

Above, the dripping black hand becomes a celestial architect, the source of every collision, every echo of despair and fleeting brilliance. The slow descent of each drop carries the weight of entire emotional histories. The blackness is not merely a color but a state of being—an acknowledgment of the unknown, the unconscious forces that move through every act of creation. 

As an artist, my thoughts while creating this centered on the terrifying beauty of surrender. What does it mean to let go of perfection and embrace the primal forces that surge just beneath the surface? Pollock’s canvas, in this light, becomes not an object to be understood but a landscape to be felt—a living, breathing entity shaped by the uncontrollable rhythm of the soul. 

The hand—half-gloved in this inky baptism—serves as a reminder of the thin line between mastery and chaos. Its fingers stretch forward, trembling with the tension of hesitation and release. And as the black oil falls, it asks: is creation an act of control, or is it the ultimate surrender? 

In  Veins of Obsidian , the viewer is suspended in that moment before the final drop falls. It is the breath held tight before chaos floods the canvas. It is the sacred instant of uncertainty, where anything is possible and nothing can be undone.