Original Fine Art by Shane Turner

Where ideas evolve, stories form, and wonder takes shape.

My original paintings never begin with sketches or structure. I have very little control over what captures my interest. They start as small sparks — a colour I notice, a story I hear, a dream that lingers, a moment of humour, fear, or conversation. These fragments sit with me quietly, popping their heads over the fence every now and again. They grow. They evolve. And slowly, they begin forming their own imagery in my mind.

There’s nothing dramatic about the process. No lightning bolt. It only becomes interesting when I begin correcting myself — when I’ve had the internal conversation enough times that I finally challenge the idea to be worthy of a painting. Sometimes I’ll ask someone to model a pose that has been floating in my mind for months. I’ll take photos and start shaping the idea from there.

I’ve had a vision for years of a woman standing in a doorway, introduced by a falling leaf — just as it passes through a small shaft of light and turns magical. The scene is one thing; the detail is another. I want the figure to feel life-like. Stand in the right spot, and I want the whole piece to feel three-dimensional, as if she’s actually there.

I revisit ideas slowly, letting them build a body, a narrative, and a mood. When the moment feels right, I begin shaping them. When I invite a model, I rarely give direction — because the idea still needs room to build itself. The story might be simple, but the effect must be powerful.

I don’t create for an imagined audience or an invisible critic. I create until the work interests me deeply. And when that interest fades, I stop. Sometimes the interest evolves because I suddenly have a new ambition for the piece.
Is that authenticity or madness?

Years ago, I used to evolve a painting so much in my mind that I ended up hating the piece long before it was finished. I didn’t realise at the time that I was constantly replacing the expectation of the painting while still painting it. I thought I was terrible at my work. Later I learned it wasn’t failure — it was lack of boundaries.

Now, I set boundaries. I find or create reference points and keep them beside me. As I paint, I improve each section only if it genuinely strengthens the story. If it doesn’t, it’s gone.

Some works are guided like a journey. I want your eyes to move through them in a rhythm — left, right, zigzag — discovering the narrative as you go. Others hit you directly. They hold your focus in one place, using colour or detail to invite you deeper, to find more than you expected.

What I want people to feel is simple:

Wonder. Curiosity. A reason to stay longer than a second.
I want the story to make you pause. I want your mind to see what I see — even though what I see is rarely what the painting becomes. My own version is vivid, structured, full of gridlines and direction. But I still live in hope that the viewer feels even a fraction of that.

Anyone can create something unusual. Anyone can paint something “unique” for the sake of being different. But meaningful work takes time, thought, and internal conversation. I spend a lot of time on each original — not chasing perfection, but chasing the shifting standard I set for myself. Every painting raises that standard, and every new piece challenges me to reach further.

With time, I’ve become more comfortable with the detail, depth, and honesty of the work I create. These originals are not mass-produced ideas. They are slow-built, story-driven, made to be lived with — not just looked at. Some pieces take hours. Some take months. I finish when I’m satisfied, when the message feels clear, not when the clock says it’s done.

This is my world of original art:
Evolving. Personal. Curious. Restless. And always searching for that feeling of wonder.