When I painted Triton, I didn’t imagine a golden palace glittering beneath the sea—I saw the ocean itself becoming his home. To me, Triton's palace is made entirely of water, shaped by the sea’s own power. A massive wave rises in the center, curling like an entrance—almost like it’s been frozen mid-motion, inviting and threatening at once. That opening leads into a dark, mysterious space, a place where the god might dwell, hidden from the human world. It’s not something peaceful or still; it’s alive, unpredictable, and full of energy, just like the myth behind it.

The horizon in the background fades into shadow, unclear and hazy, and that was intentional. I wanted it to feel like the edge of a story, like something ancient just out of reach. The wave-palace feels both welcoming and ominous, like it’s calling you in but warning you at the same time. There’s a tension in that—between beauty and power, between curiosity and caution. For me, Triton isn’t just a scene; it’s a feeling, a moment where myth and sea blur together into something vast and unknowable.