Painting marks the third layer of SatNam’s creativity, where earlier practices converge and expand. Graffiti was the most fleeting—created quickly, erased quickly. Tattooing extended that timeline, living as long as the person carried it. Painting, however, holds the potential to outlast both artist and audience.

After years of claiming public walls through graffiti and then hiding designs beneath clothing through tattooing, SatNam turned to painting as a way of giving back more openly. Canvas, paper, clay, or any available surface became places where creativity could be shared without concealment or confrontation.

Here the urgency of graffiti meets the symbolism of tattooing. Raw, rebellious gestures arrive without concern for perfection, carrying the beauty of accident and immediacy. At the same time, layers of compressed meaning and symbolic language unfold across generations, connecting past civilizations with the future of humanity.

Painting is the bloom of the tree that began underground. What started in secrecy and pressure now emerges into light, bearing fruit, color, and form that others can see, hold, and live with. In this way, SatNam’s work continues to grow—rooted in rebellion, flowering in vision, and offering its harvest to all who encounter it.

The Blood of Mars

from the series
SAT NAM

Oil on canvas

Vilnius2025

[SOLD]

The figure, skinless and exposed, stands in the full vulnerability of awakening. This is not a painting of suffering—it is a painting of initiation. The raw flesh, the red sinews, the open nerves: this is Mars unveiled, the god of war not in armor, but in essence.

In Roman myth, Mars is more than a destroyer—he is a creator through confrontation. He fathers empires, births legends, and stands at the threshold where instinct meets destiny. Here, he is stripped of glory and shown in his truest form: the masculine force laid bare, not conquering the world, but facing the world within.

This is what it feels like when Kundalini rises—not just a blissful current, but a fire that burns through illusion. It peels you open. It demands truth. It shows you what you’ve buried. Rage. Fear. Shame. Rejected strength. And above all—the shadow.

The green serpent coils around the body not to kill, but to mirror. She is not the enemy—she is the companion of awakening. She is Venus in serpent form, the ancient feminine meeting the wounded masculine in the most sacred confrontation.

In this union, Mars does not swing his sword. He surrenders to the process of becoming. This is no battlefield—but it is war. A war inside the psyche. A war against the split self. The moment captured is not a fight, but a recognition: of shadow, of truth, of power.

In Jungian terms, this is shadow work—the confrontation between the conscious self and the long-buried contents of the unconscious. But here, it is also myth. Also ceremony. The floor is an altar. The frame is the structure of the psyche. The serpent is the initiator. And the figure is Mars, reborn not through violence, but through integration.

Because awakening is not about staying clean.

It’s about walking through your own underworld—

and returning with the fire still burning in your hands.

Mars is not destroyed.

He is revealed.

And once the Serpent rises,

once you’ve looked her in the eye,

there is no going back.

Only through.

And through is where your true self waits.

The god beneath the skin.

The Eye of Venus

from the series
SAT NAM

Oil on canvas

Vilnius2025

[AVAILABLE]

I saw her before l ever knew what eyes were.
In the field of Akasha, where nothing is hidden and nothing pretends, she appeared.
Not as a woman, but as a force.
Silver-blue light trailing behind her like whispers of oceans that have no shores.
She moved like a question only the heart understands, and I was drawn to her not because I wanted her— but because I remembered her.
She was from Sirius.
That I knew without language.
Her energy sang with the clarity of ancient water.
She carried the memory of worlds where emotion isn't weakness,
but the highest form of wisdom.
She didn't look at me, not at first.
She was too immersed in the music of the stars, spinning light through her fingertips, weaving signals into the void.
She wasn't waiting—
She was becoming.
And I stood still, overwhelmed, not by beauty, but by presence—
that she could exist like that,
undisturbed, undivided, unmistakably whole. She is not mine.
She never was.
But somewhere in the Akashic light, she turned to me and smiled — as if to say,
"You were never really alive before.
Join me now and we will dance and loath forever."

WHERE THE WIND TAKES YOU

from the series
SAT NAM

Oil on canvas

Vilnius2025

[AVAILABLE]

The Windmill is a painting about return — not to the past, but to the place where everything once began.
Like in Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist, where the boy travels far to find treasure only to discover it buried where he started, this piece carries the same truth.
Years ago, I left my hometown to explore creativity across Europe and beyond.
I chased visions, climbed mountains, inner and outer - through tattooing, art, experience.
I was searching for something: a deeper connection, a creative freedom, a treasure.
And then, after all that, I returned.
Quietly.
I went for a walk and ended up at the old windmill in the fields where I used to draw as a child. It had changed.
Part of it had collapsed.
But something opened in me — I saw not just the ruin, but the reflection of my entire journey.
That broken windmill became a mirror.
And in that moment, I understood: the treasure I had been looking for was here all along.
Not just the place — but what it now meant.
A symbol of completion, of transformation, of everything coming full circle.
This painting holds that realization.
It's a meditation on time, memory, and returning to the source.
The shadow in the painting is mine — a witness, a seeker.
The figure of the Hanged Man represents surrender, clarity, and the gift of seeing from a new angle.
The storks spiral like seasons, like time, like a windmill powered by unseen forces.
The Windmill is not just a memory.
It's the moment when the dream, the story, and the place all align - and you realize you were never truly lost.
Just learning how to come home.

Sharing the World

from the series
SAT NAM

Oil on canvas

Vilnius2025

[AVAILABLE]

This is not just a painting—it is a map of the cosmos and a diagram of the soul. It speaks of division and union, of two lights arriving from one source and building the world in mirrored symmetry. At the highest level, two radiant eyes gaze downward from a cosmic realm, sending out beams like rivers of light—fluid yet precise—passing through portals where they crystallize into structured forms. Red and blue. Warm and cool. Two distinct currents pouring into separate but parallel realities.

These beams become towers. Homes. Minds. Faces. Each tower, made of bricks of vision, shapes a chamber of perception. And through these abstract rooms, the energies trickle down, filtered and transformed, until they finally descend into the earthly realm—where two human figures, male and female, stand together.

But they are not just observers—they are participants in the same eternal cycle. From their conjoined bodies, the energy rises again. Two new beams shoot upward from their crowns, returning through the heavens, feeding the source, and cascading back into the Earth—forming the very ground they walk on. They are shaped by this dance of light and gravity, yet also shaping it.

This piece unfolds across three levels—energy, emotion, matter. The top: pure vision, archetypal eyes gazing through the dark matter of the cosmos. The middle: filtered energies forming the architecture of internal rooms, where emotion begins to hold shape. And below: Earth, dense and vibrant, where union is embodied and movement becomes ritual.

What we see is two beings walking together—formed from the same flow that passes through towers and stars. They are made not of flesh alone, but of light turned into thought turned into form. The masculine and feminine do not oppose here; they complete. And the world is not merely shared between them—it is created by the act of sharing itself.

This painting is a hymn to reciprocity. A sacred feedback loop. A vision of how duality sustains the universe—and how love is its living geometry.

Mirroroom

from the series
SAT NAM

Refflective polyester, neoprene, acrylic, varnish, wood, fire

Vilnius2024

[SOLD]

This is not a portrait. It is a mirror—but not of skin or surface. It is a reflection of something deeper: the architecture of perception itself. The painting presents a face, enormous and transcendent, not male, not female, but whole—a universal being whose two wide eyes are the sun and the moon, wings of polarity. Day and night, right and wrong, soft and sharp—all opposites blink in harmony to propel this cosmic figure through the fabric of experience.

The face is a room. Or perhaps the room is a face. A checkerboard of yellow and red forms its central channel, the throat or the corridor of mind, and from this emerges a singular figure—just stepping out from the shower, before the split into duality. It stands upright, surrounded by a space that is both sacred chamber and infinite recursion. The walls stretch up and dissolve into the abstract; the grid becomes stars, becomes patterns, becomes meaning falling into itself.

Look closer. Within the figure is another space—another mirror of the room, contained in the being, which is contained in the face, which is contained in you. This infinite regress is not a trick of geometry, but a revelation: that within every mind lies a body, and within every body, a room; and inside that room, again, a mirror. A mirror in which you do not see your features, but the flicker of your own shadow, dancing across reflective polyester like a whisper of identity. It does not reveal—it invites.

This piece is not meant to show you yourself, but to dissolve the idea that you are one thing. You are the eye, and the blink. The room, and the one who walks through it. The thought, and the thought of the thought. Reality, this painting suggests, is a hall of mirrors made of sensation, memory, and energy. The mask you see is not the face of another—it is your own consciousness staring back, waiting for you to recognize the pattern.

The Mountain of Mirror

from the series
SAT NAM

Indian ink, goldleaf

Vilnius2024

[AVAILABLE]

I’ve walked up volcanoes, like Teide, and watched the devil’s breath rise from the molten earth. I’ve stood atop Mytikas and heard the whispers of gods. But Barrhorn changed me in a deeper way. It wasn’t just a mountain—it became my teacher. A presence that outlived empires and will outlast all our species.

Through it, I saw that nature is not scenery—it is a sentient system. Mountains are not dead rock—they are watchers, purifiers, record-keepers.

Their rivers are veins.
Their glaciers are memory.
Their peaks are minds.

When we walk toward them, they listen.
When we return, they judge.
When we surrender to them, they may—if we’re lucky—show us who we are beneath all our noise.

And maybe, like that first time, it was as much a surprise for the mountain to feel me as it was for me to see it.
Now, I no longer see mountains as places to conquer or escape to. I see them as beings. As old, holy, and aware.

And when I walk, I don’t walk to reach a peak.
I walk to speak—to them, through them, and sometimes…
if I’ve been quiet long enough,
I can hear them speak back.

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