The Presence of Absence: A Story in Four Paintings and One Life

There is a kind of art that does not demand attention but invites presence. It lingers. It asks questions instead of offering answers. And sometimes—if you’re open to it—it can meet you exactly where you are, even in grief.

This is presence of absence: an artistic style that finds power in what’s missing. It’s not just about solitude or stillness, but about how what isn’t shown becomes what matters most. I didn’t set out to collect paintings in this style. But over time, and through a series of deeply personal experiences, I realized that I wasn’t just collecting art—I was collecting echoes.

Jean-Paul Sartre’s thoughts on the presence of absence have profound implications for understanding art and aesthetics. He believed that art has the power to reveal the inherent nothingness and ambiguity of human existence, challenging viewers to confront the uncertainties and contradictions of life.

I have fallen into the deep well of “inherent nothingness and ambiguity of human existence” more than once but will leave this portion of the story to me and my therapist.

This is the story of four paintings, one unexpected loss, and what it means to feel something deeply even when nothing appears to be happening.

Found and Lost

It is a bench. A window. A lone figure.

In December, Bruce Dean—an LA-based artist I follow—released a new painting. The moment I saw it, something stopped me. The image was quiet: a lone figure on a park bench, seen through a window from the inside of a house. Outside, the trees were bare. Other benches sat empty. Nothing moved.

It was a portrait of stillness. Stark contrast framed the scene—inside versus outside, shadow against soft light. But it was more than aesthetic. It was emotional distance. A painting of separation, of things left unsaid.

That same day, my beloved eleven-year-old dog—my constant, loyal companion—passed away suddenly and without warning. The grief was immediate and total. And somehow, this painting became its vessel.

I didn’t just see a stranger on a bench anymore. I saw myself—staring out into a world forever altered. The painting didn’t explain or comfort. It held space. Its silence became mine.

That’s the essence of presence of absence. Unlike traditional works that show you a moment, these ask you to enter it or interpret it. The story was unfinished, and suddenly, it was mine.

Dean hadn’t titled the piece, so I named it after the date she died. It now hangs in my office, quietly watching me, as I watch it.

Homage to Hopper

Some absences are intimate. Others feel cinematic.

Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks has long been an icon of modern solitude—a diner lit from within, its customers emotionally distant, the city outside dark and silent. It’s the poster child for presence of absence. I’ve always loved it. But owning it? That’s not exactly possible (thank you, Art Institute of Chicago).

Then I discovered Patrick Kramer’s Nighthawk. Singular title. Singular experience.

At first glance, it’s a tribute. But step closer, and it becomes something else entirely. The candle. The oversized white mug. The folded money on the table. All of it points to someone just gone. A warmth lingers, but not a person.

Then you notice the tear. Literally. The wall is peeled back, revealing a noir mural beneath the city surface—a hidden story within the story.

And yet I was drawn in. This painting didn’t just nod to Hopper—it dismantled him. Where Nighthawks feels paused, Nighthawk feels hollowed. As if something urgent had already passed through. As if someone was trying to remember what they’d lost but could only find fragments.

It was a feeling I knew well. The loss of someone you love doesn’t vanish; it lingers in the shape of cups, chairs, routines. This painting understands that—and leaves room for us to remember.

Go Tell the World

The Absence can be loud. But sometimes, it whispers. Softly. Reverently.

Simonjan Mayrig’s Go Tell the World is a still life—but it breathes. An old stool, a towel with an embroidered icon, an open book, boots left behind, and a humble basin. The space is utterly still. And yet you know: someone was just here.

This is what I love about this piece: it’s not empty. It’s paused. As though the person who occupied it has just stepped out—to spread a message, to carry on, or perhaps to never return.

There’s a spiritual weight to it. Not in a preachy way, but in the way that lived faith often feels—in the quiet rituals, in the traces left behind. The basin suggests cleansing. The open book, mid-sentence, suggests something urgent was being understood. The boots say work, movement, grounding. Every object carries meaning without ever declaring it.

In this painting, absence doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like presence in another form. A life that mattered. A mission unfinished. A stool that still holds weight, even when it’s empty.

Life(less) in the Big City

The last piece in this story says something that ties them all together—about space, structure, and silence.

Sung Eun Kim’s Deconstruction and Blue Lights is a cityscape. A massive bridge arcs overhead. A brick building glows on one side. A blue-lit archway hums on the other. There are no people in view. And yet the city feels alive.

Windows flicker with unseen stories. Machinery waits. Geometry sings. This is not a cold city. It is a breathing one—at rest.

I remember walking through cities, often alone, sometimes tired, sometimes whole. That feeling—the sense that the world is still spinning even when you aren’t—that’s what this painting captures. Stillness not as silence, but as readiness.

Where Bruce Dean’s image gave me space to grieve, this one gives me room to move forward. It reminds me that absence isn’t always a void. Sometimes, it’s a pause. A breath. A bridge to what’s next.

Am I?

René Descartes’ famous statement “Cogito, ergo sum” – translated to “I think, therefore I am” – is a foundational element of his philosophical work Meditations on First Philosophy.

He goes on to state that cogito (“I Think”) empowers the mind to create meaning, systems, and understanding — even in the absence of physical certainty.

By incorporating elements of absence and ambiguity in their work, the artist invites viewers to actively participate in the interpretation as they are prompted to fill in the gaps and make connections based on what is suggested but not explicitly shown – to create meaning, systems, and understanding.

“I Create, therefore I Am” if you will.

Again, any art can be interpreted, but presence of absence require interpretation. With most art my interpretation skills are lacking – thus failing to support my existence. My ability to engage and interact with presence of absence is an appealing aspect of this genre of art.

Conclusion

I read a quote about New York:

“There is a privacy about it which no other city seems to possess. It is a city of lonely men and women who are capable of indulging in solitude without feeling lonely.”

That line has stayed with me. It gives shape to something I’ve long felt—not just in cities, but in myself. I don’t fear solitude. I indulge in it. And these paintings give me space and opportunity for that.

Each one asks something of me. Not to understand, but to feel. Not to interpret perfectly, but to show up. And in doing so, they’ve become companions—quiet ones—on a path where the most important presence may be what’s not said, not shown, not there.

But still deeply felt.