Writing
helps me understand why I create, and what topics are important to me. It serves as a guide between creation cycles.
Over the years, writing has enabled me to put down my thoughts, connect the dots, and understand myself better. This practice is at the root of my beginnings in visual art. When I started making public art in 2020, my screenwriter friend Clément Bompart encouraged me to take my texts out of my notebooks and upload them to a publicly accessible website, Medium. Among other things, this practice has helped me to properly document my exhibitions and pushed me to learn more about the subjects I tackle through my art. Writing is essential to my creation in visual art, and I will continue to document my artistic journey and reflections in this way.
Spring 2026
Dear McCoymmunity,
It is the 20th of March. Spring is here!
Every year, for those of us who call Montréal home, the arrival of this season remains more of a promise than a reality. We are still bracing for one or two last snowstorms before we can truly say that winter is behind us.
But once the first rays of sun appear and the thermometer climbs into double digits, the city exhales. Shorts emerge from the back of closets, and with them, a spirit unique to this place: the art of living fully in the moment, of drinking in every drop of vitamin D while it lasts.
I was born in spring, and I have always loved this time of renewal. I cherish it all the more because it brings me back to the mural artists I know, people who, like me, have been quietly hibernating for months.
On this first day of spring, I wish you a renewed sense of vitality. May you find yourself immersed in colour, whatever that means to you.
That feeling is not always easy to hold onto, I know. The news finds its way in, uninvited. It is hard to stay open to wonder when a handful of people seem intent on setting the world on fire. Art soothes the soul in times of peace, but what becomes of it when darkness divides us so deeply?
What role should the artist play in all of this? Should we take a stand, at the risk of losing the lightness and dreaminess that the world so desperately needs? Or should we keep offering beauty and escape, knowing we may seem out of touch, even privileged, in doing so?
It is not a simple question. And besides, what moral authority can an artist truly claim when opinions are fracturing the way they are? Our black-and-white view of the world feeds echo chambers. We gradually retreat into tribal moralities. Our collective sense of discernment softens, and the values we hold up as universal quietly become those of whatever group we belong to, whether we realise it or not.
How do we build something together in a world like this?
Lately, I have been reading Meditations by the Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius, written in the second century. In this quiet, introspective work, one sentence offered me a small but steadying answer: "Stop talking about what a good person should be. Be one."
Simply be one.
Our moral compass does not need to be so elaborate, after all. Not the artist's, not anyone's. Across almost every spiritual tradition, the quality of our individual actions, especially the ones no one witnesses, is the most truthful reflection of who we truly are. And those actions, quietly and persistently, shape the people around us.
This is a growing conviction I try to live by. To watch what people do, not what they say or post. To embody the world I wish existed, and to tend to relationships with people who are moving in that direction. Though I remain aware of the risk: that in doing so, I might unknowingly construct my own echo chamber.
So I try to stay open. To welcome surprise.
And indeed, I was recently surprised by an encounter that brought me back to my Christian roots. I had left that part of myself behind long ago, tucking religion away in a category I had quietly decided to leave untouched. "Speak to me of spirituality, not religion," my ego used to say.
Without forgetting the wounds this faith has inflicted on so many throughout history, this person revealed something I had not previously seen: the quiet, daily practice my grandparents had cultivated in their community. Small, intentional acts of care for themselves and for others. Where many of us spend our lives constructing a personal moral framework from scratch, the truly devoted find themselves carried by a melody already written, one that, when sung in chorus, amplifies both individual and collective impact.
I had never seen it quite that way. And I welcomed the disruption.
I love catching myself in the act of a limiting belief. Psychologists call it metacognition, the practice of observing your own thoughts. It is a remarkable instrument for self-awareness, and for creation. I try to cultivate it at night, reaching for my dreams before they dissolve. It is not always easy. My dreams have not been very colourful lately. Perhaps that is about to change.
Speaking of colour.
I have been deepening my oil painting practice with master painter Robert Pietrantonio. Our teacher-student dynamic is a source of great richness, and what I carry away from our sessions reaches well beyond technique. He is even painting my portrait at the moment, an eight-hour study in total. I will share the result with you at the end of April!
Robert breathes art. He lives inside colour. He is devoted to references so rare and so carefully studied over decades that being in his presence feels like stepping into a private archive of beauty. His passion and his exacting nature are a genuine source of momentum for me. He does not simply want me to be a good student. He wants me to excel. On that, we are in complete agreement.
When we first met, around my Stardust exhibition in 2024, I told him I was trying to move beyond a single label. Some saw me as an "urban" painter, others as "academic." I claim neither, though I honour both. I hold deep respect for artists who spent their formative years perfecting their handstyle on walls, and who are, by now, exceptional at what they do. It would be presumptuous of me to place myself among them. I also hold great admiration for the patience of purely academic painters, and those who came before them. I have neither the formal training nor the temperament that world requires, but I draw from it freely, as I do from everything that sparks my curiosity, whether that pleases anyone or not.
These days, I find myself drifting away from technique as an end in itself. I know how to draw. I know how to paint. I no longer need to prove it, to the world or to myself. What I once sought was validation, a quiet permission to belong. The artistic community of Montréal granted me that, slowly and generously. It has led me somewhere else entirely, and I am grateful.
Art is a means, not a destination. My canvas and my brushes are vessels. What I am reaching for is something simpler and harder to name: the rendering of this world's beauty into abstraction and colour.
Have you ever noticed the shadow a late winter afternoon casts across the snow? It is blue. A soft, luminous azure. Have you caught the way a winter sunset warms everything it touches, turning stone buildings amber, almost molten? Summer is approaching. Look up, and find the violet ascending from the warm hues above your heads. It is breathtaking.
Don't mistake colours for mere data on our paintings. They hold something more fundamental. Blend too many colours, and the light fades, pulling towards black. Artists call this substractive synthesis. What pigments could you let go of to let more light into the canvas of your life?
With oil paint, I aim to capture that sense of wonder. I am still in the humbling early stages of learning. I tend to learn quickly, but oil has other ideas. It is teaching me patience, a long-term wager I am willing to embrace.
For now, I am channelling that devotion into individual lessons. As I mentioned in my last note, I have returned to teaching, partly because it illuminates so much about my own practice and its gaps, and partly because sharing is one of my deepest pleasures.
I am fortunate to be surrounded by remarkably talented artists, many of whom would be extraordinary teachers in their own right. I am considering, over time, building a small network of instructors who could share their visual art practices with you: murals, watercolour, advanced drawing, and more. Let me know what would interest you. I would genuinely love to hear.
On that note: this coming autumn, artist Tchekon and I will be launching a group drawing course. Level 1 for beginners, Level 2 for intermediate and advanced students. Whether you have never held a pencil or are looking to refine your practice, we would be glad to have you. Details to follow this spring!
I would love to hear your thoughts on the questions I raised at the opening of this letter, and to know how you feel about the artistic direction I am pursuing. I am aware that some of you who have been with me from the beginning may find yourselves less drawn to where I am headed. I have made peace with that. My artistic direction will always be rooted in lived experience, and that, I hope, is precisely what you will continue to value, whatever era of my work we find ourselves in. If there is one thing I can promise you, it is this: I will remain honest with myself, and therefore with you.
Until my next note, I wish you a joyful spring!
P.S. This Sunday in Montréal, don't miss the studio sale hosted by Facies, a fellow member of my collective. Go show some love!
Winter 2025
Dear McCoymmunity,
Far from the polar temperatures of Québec, I’m writing to you from the Monts d’Arrée, in Brittany, where my grandfather still lives and where my roots remain deeply anchored. This land, abandoned by many because of its harsh climate and marshy grounds, offers me a deep sense of calm every time I return. The acidic soil, holding ancient stones shaped by powerful Atlantic winds, prevents trees from taking hold, giving the landscape an almost desert-like quality. I have drawn much inspiration from here. The melancholic scenery spread across its low hills often brings Ireland to mind, with its rugged and solitary lands. Come and see for yourself one day, you’ll understand.
There’s a saying here: “If you love Brittany in winter, you truly love Brittany.” I believe the same can be said of my adopted country, Canada, a land of near-permanent winter. Far from the long, warm days of June, this solstice marks the end of a cycle and invites deep introspection, allowing the next one to mature. Like you, my year 2025 has been shaped by highs and lows, each bringing its own lessons and sources of inspiration.
This year has been a profound lesson in letting go. Where my entrepreneurial side finds comfort in control and clear milestones, 2025 pushed me to loosen my grip on outcomes and return my focus to effort, presence, and the moment itself. I welcome this teaching and try to make peace with it, without denying my true nature. In my artistic practice, it has led to greater spontaneity, both in creation and in the way I connect with my audience.
With this new mindset, and through creative wandering, I’ve discovered a new way of building my murals by sketching freely on scraps of paper over the past few weeks. I can’t wait to introduce you to my 2026 vintage.
Recently, I had the chance to travel between Marseille and Bilbao, letting myself be carried by the energy of the places I passed through—from La Canebière to the Pyrenees, from the Guggenheim Museum to the rural landscapes of the Basque Country.
Naturally, I often reached for my sketchbook to return to my first love: cross-hatching, drawings made of parallel lines (you can see a few examples in my latest Instagram post). The very first sketch I made was of the Basilica of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde in Marseille. On the train, a fellow passenger complimented my work and seemed genuinely moved by what I had drawn. To thank her for her kind words and curiosity, I gave her the drawing.
That simple gesture brought me back to the reason I first began creating, especially in public spaces: sharing. In a world where spontaneous interactions with strangers feel increasingly rare, drawing, this universal language that reconnects us with childhood, has the power to lower our defences and spark real conversations. Although I’ve stepped away from political art, I still deeply believe in the transformative power of my practice, and in the idea that beauty is a sensory experience capable of lifting us collectively. Just look at the link between the greatness of past civilisations and the beauty of their art... Hardly a coincidence, in my view.
Carried by this momentum, I gave away three modest drawings during this trip. The third was made at Café Iruña in Bilbao (apparently once frequented by Hemingway). As I was sketching one of the lamps, I struck up a conversation with a local couple in their eighties. The gentleman, warm and curious, asked me where I’d found my postcard. I told him I had just drawn it in my sketchbook, and his eyes lit up: he was an artist himself! We spent a good half hour talking about art in the Basque Country, about his own paintings (which he sadly refuses to show publicly), and about life in general. What a joy. Once again, my deepest conversation of the trip was sparked by art!
Travel, and movement itself, has helped me reconnect with this more spontaneous side of who I am. The letting go I mentioned earlier becomes second nature when I’m on the move. I believe I need to travel more… and sketch in public more often too.
Speaking of movement, as I mentioned in my last autumn note, one of the goals of my stay in Bilbao was to find a gallery to work with. I’ve had a very promising connection with one of them, and I’ll be working hard over the next six months to build a new collection to share. Bilbao is just one ecosystem among many—if you know of other galleries around the world where my work might belong, please let me know.
If this note has stirred in you a desire to engage with art in some way, I’ll be launching a “Work with Titi” section on my website in January, offering several ways to collaborate. I’ll briefly outline them here and invite you to visit www.titimccoy.com in mid-January to learn more. I’ll also announce the launch on Instagram once everything is live.
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Drawing courses: learn at your own pace, whether you’re a beginner or more experienced;
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Commissioned works: receive a custom artwork in Canada or abroad;
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Mural art: collaborate with me to create an artwork on an indoor or outdoor wall;
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Sales programme: if you have art knowledge and strong people skills, sell my murals and earn 10% (under a co-signing agreement).
Having travelled along both the Mediterranean and the Atlantic during this European journey, I’ll leave you with a quote by Leonard Cohen that I hope will resonate with you:“If you don’t become the ocean, you’ll be seasick every day.”
Fall
2025
Dear McCoymmunity,
Ten years ago, in October 2015, I set down my bags in Montréal for the very first time. A living spectacle awaited me: not only the murals that gave the city its vibrant soul, but also the shifting colours of the leaves and the gentle warmth of the Indian summer, which instantly bound me to what would become my adopted home.
Many Indian summers later, only a few weeks ago, nature offered me one of its rarest gifts: a curtain of northern lights dancing across the sky, right above my head.
No matter how many museums I visit or masterpieces I contemplate, one truth remains: nothing rivals the beauty and mystery of the sky in all its forms.
It is this sky that continues to nourish my artist’s soul. Having returned from the stars—where I had dedicated an exhibition in 2024—I now find myself back within the Earth’s atmosphere. What captures my attention these days are cloud formations.
From a purely technical point of view, clouds fascinate me because they are so difficult to reproduce. Their ever-changing nature forces the artist to rely on memory when trying to capture them in the moment. Clouds know no sharp edges; their contrasts are subtle. Push them too far, and the eye is lost in too many focal points, their diffuse nature broken. Too little, and they become nothing more than a hollow ball of cotton, emptied of essence. Their colours too—lit by our nearest star—are endlessly intriguing. Dawn, dusk, the golden hour… these fleeting hues strike us as almost unreal, leaving us spellbound.
My aim this autumn and winter is to study and interpret as many clouds as I can, until I am able to conjure my own, no longer dependent on the sky above. Through this, I hope to build my own worlds—ones that can carry my audience into a landscape of colour and imagination.
To those who say I often have my head in the clouds, they will be right. Soon the clouds will even be inside my head!
On a more philosophical note, clouds seem to be calling me for other reasons too. As I recently shared on Instagram, their impermanence has echoed my own experiences these past months. However magnificent, clouds are only passing through. They vanish, only to return transformed—perhaps even more beautiful, or simply different. Then they disappear again, reminding us of the universal truth of emptiness.
That emptiness leads me back to my own essence. The human body is made of atoms, of which more than 99.9% is empty space, and the matter we are composed of is constantly renewing itself, like a river of fleeting forms. We are shifting architectures of void and passage, a fragile harmony of permanence and change. Letting go of attachment—to our bodies and to the world around us—becomes essential if we wish to live in peace. That, in essence, is the lesson the clouds whisper to me as I paint them: that I am, at once, nothing and everything.
I recently read Des Univers Multiples by Aurélien Barrau, and found a passage I wish to share with you, as it ties in with these reflections: “Nothing is ever direct. When I look at the collection of poems on my desk at this very moment, what I truly see is the outcome of a complex interaction between the light of an electric filament and this composite object, as detected by my eyes. There is no direct access to reality as such. Everything is mediated. It is even likely that reality itself has no sense or existence.”
This notion of mediation reminds me of my earliest exhibitions, when viewers often saw meanings in my works entirely different from those I had intended. Their reality belonged to them. I understood then that my art, like all things, was but a channel, a way for others to access their own inner worlds. As I explained in my first note (Summer 2025), I have since stopped creating to send a message. I try instead to create from the heart rather than the head.
And here we are, in autumn. In many Indigenous traditions, this season marks abundance before winter—the time of introspection. I feel that abundance around me today. Despite farewells and doubts in recent months, I remain grateful for the opportunities life continues to place in my path. My practice has become a true pillar of strength—like the ancestral Japanese art of kintsugi, creation mends the fractures of my vase with gold. Painting is one of the rare moments when I lose all sense of time and space, soaring far above my conscious state, only to return lighter, calmer. The wisdom it gives me in the present moment is something I consciously try to cultivate in every corner of my life, with gratitude.
As the great Sufi poet Rumi wrote: “Wear gratitude like a cloak and it will feed every corner of your life.”
What’s next? Together with my collective, OTM, I hope to create a major mural in Montréal next year as part of the city’s Public Art Mural programme (PAM). The municipality can cover up to 75% of the cost, making such projects far more accessible to property owners. If you know of anyone—a private owner, a shopkeeper, or someone else—who could help us find a beautiful wall, please let me know.
Later this year I’ll also make a nomadic trip to Europe, where I plan to explore Bilbao, a city many have told me holds a strong artistic spirit. A total solar eclipse will take place there next summer, and I hope to connect with gallerists in the area to present some of my works at that time. It’s a long shot, but one I’ll attempt nonetheless! If you know anyone in Bilbao—or any galleries in the eclipse zone —I’d be grateful for the introduction.
Until my next note, I wish you a beautiful autumn.
Summer
2025
Dear McCoymmunity,
It is a pleasure to count you among the very first recipients of this seasonal missive. Your support means a great deal to me, and I want to thank you for taking the time to step into my world.
The McCoyversation will find me, every three months, stealing away from the froth of things to offer you a few reflections, tinted through my artist’s lens, in messages such as this one. Stepping away from social media for this ritual is no accident: writing, to me, is an intimate medium — one that asks to be received slowly, savoured like a letter from a distant friend. Through this form, I hope to open a small door into what truly stirs me, and offer you a few keys to help you unlock the meanings behind my past and future works.
This note is, as its name suggests, a conversation. The perspectives of those who engage with my art have long enriched me and helped me grow. Please feel free to reply, to follow a thread that moved you — I would love to read your reflections, and hear how mine echo within you.
Happy reading!
If you know me, you’ll know how deeply I cherish the Académie des Beaux-Arts de Montréal. Like only Montréal can, this place opened its doors to me eight years ago, back when I was still scribbling quietly in my modest sketchbooks.
Over time, I crossed paths with many talented individuals there — and truth be told, I often simply watched them during life drawing sessions, only to return the following week with the same tools in hand, trying to imitate what I’d seen. I wouldn’t call myself self-taught; rather, I was fortunate to be in the right place at the right time, learning by witnessing craft in motion and trying, humbly, to follow suit.
One such talent is Robert Pietrantonio, a teacher at the Academy who gives, among other things, oil painting classes. I had long wanted to try something beyond acrylic — a plastic medium that, while quick and accessible, never quite let me bring my ideas to full bloom. I’d already explored others, including aerosol paint, but oil kept calling to me. Its richness of pigment, its versatility, its memory of time, and the philosophy that comes with it had always drawn my attention.
As a practising artist, I thought I’d return to the Academy simply to pick up a few techniques — some rules, some tricks — to help me approach this unfamiliar medium. The “fat over lean” rule, the solvents, the glazes, and so on. Yet week after week, Robert wasn’t teaching me how to paint. He was teaching me how to see — to observe, to feel.
When we artists paint “nature” (that is, something real before us), we must memorise what we see so we can later recreate it on the canvas. As counterintuitive as it may sound, this gives us an immense advantage: it allows us to paint a small detail while keeping our sense of the whole.
I find the parallel with life striking. So often, lost in our daily routines, we lose sight of the bigger picture. We labour over details while key foundations remain untouched. During my first exhibition in 2022, I spoke of a psychological shift reported by astronauts: the overview effect. Consistently, those who have seen the Earth from space return home with a renewed alignment — a quiet spiritual awakening rarely encountered in ordinary life. It made me wonder: if we could step outside of ourselves, even briefly, and see the world as a whole, might our time here feel a little lighter?
That, in essence, was the spirit behind a project I co-created last year with screenwriter and filmmaker Clément Bompart.
This pursuit of lightness — of weightlessness — is what anchors my creative work. I began to take art seriously not out of ambition, but as a way to surface, to keep myself from drowning. Something in me knew then that this practice would help me hold on to a sense of wonder.
While the reality is more nuanced, I can say that art has indeed helped me loosen my grip on the world and see myself from unfamiliar angles. I’ve found immense light in it — but also shadow. A kind of low, persistent melancholy that lingers in some of my pieces. Ironically, those works are often the ones that resonate most with others — perhaps because they come from my gut and speak to a shared experience for which only art has the words.
And now, summer begins in the northern hemisphere. For me, that means the mural season is underway. My first mural of 2025 was completed just last week, at the corner of 15th Avenue and Highway 40 in Montréal, near the Saint-Michel Arena. You’ll likely catch a glimpse of it the next time you travel from Québec City to Montréal. For me, this mural marks the culmination of everything I’ve sought in dedicating myself professionally to art. The project itself transformed a former parking lot into green space — a process known as déminéralisation. A community assembly even worked with us, artists, offering thoughts and elements we integrated into our creative process. When the mural was unveiled, several local organisations and elected officials, including the neighbourhood mayor, came to inaugurate the space.
This wasn’t just art for art’s sake — it served a cause, sparked reflection. It gave voice to civic efforts, gave colour to ideas, made the intangible visible. Murals are fleeting witnesses to their time. They carry, in one way or another, the zeitgeist. Climate crisis, in this context, is vast and layered. Raising awareness is a first but essential step toward collective action. That’s the spirit in which my crew, OTM, contributed to this project — and will continue to do so in the years ahead.
Beyond murals — still a cornerstone of my practice — I also want to deepen my work on canvas, with this new medium: oil.
Oil painting will demand from me a monastic patience and a lifelong surrender. At the Academy, we say it often: we are eternal students. My first canvases will be studies, humble observations of the natural world. Over the years, I’ll refine my technique, and my work will gain in quality — just as it did when I began with acrylics. More than commercial success, my aim is to cultivate and sustain the quiet serenity that visual art offers me. I know how lucky I am to have developed this skill, and I hope it will continue to guide me through the beauty — and the brutality — of being alive. And in doing so, I hope you’ll find something of your own in these works, too — something that speaks to your inner landscape.
On that note, I’d love to hear from you: how does art make you feel? Though our responses may differ, I sense among my audience a shared introspective current, something I can’t quite name. Let me be clear: I’ll never create to meet a demand. But knowing how my work speaks to you may help shape what subjects I choose to explore next.
My phase of overtly political “activist art” is behind me now. I still donate 10% of my artistic income to environmental causes — but I no longer wish to guide anyone’s opinion. The crisis we face today — or metacrisis, as Scottish philosopher Jonathan Rowson calls it — is, to my mind, not a political one. It runs deeper. It touches on shared values, the meaning we give to our lives, our ability to connect with ourselves. If art — or beauty, more broadly — is one of the few spaces where most of us can still agree, then I intend to use this space to nurture collective feeling and gently steer the zeitgeist of our era in a direction I believe to be necessary.
I may only have a few decades left to do so — no time to waste…
I hope these words have resonated with you, and that this “newsletter-that-isn’t-really-a-newsletter” format is something you enjoy. Do feel free to share your thoughts — I’ll gladly take them into account when writing my next letter, on the first day of autumn (22 September).