To stand before Andrew Noel Tomaro’s paintings is to step inside a mind caught in the tangled loop of overthinking—a space where silence is deafening, blank canvases feel like cliffs, and every decision feels like a trap.
His thesis, a series of emotionally charged paintings, doesn’t aim to impress. It aims to confess.
“Sa matuod lang, daw mga singgit sang bulig ang akon mga painting,” Andrew admits. “My works are cries for help. Each brushstroke felt like walking on eggshells, each blank canvas a storm of fear and hesitation.”
The condition he paints—analysis-paralysis—isn’t abstract to him. It’s lived. It’s daily. It’s waking up to a mind that never quiets, questioning every step, doubting every move. Through art, Andrew turned this weight into something visible—into color, texture, and form.
His paintings aren’t polished performances. They are raw, often messy, and deeply human. Every layer carries exhaustion. Every rough patch on the surface carries a story of trying—and trying again.
“Indi lang hulagway ang ginsaysay ko kundi gin-pour ko diri ang akon kasubo, kapoy, kag kabudlay nga dala sang pagpirme sa sulod sang akon ulo,” he shares.
But within all that turmoil, there’s beauty. In the spaces where most would hide their doubts, Andrew chose to reveal them. And in doing so, he found healing—not only for himself, but for anyone who has ever felt stuck, drowning in their own expectations.
One painting in particular stood out to him as both the hardest and the most healing to complete. It captured that exact moment—naipit sa tunga sang pagpadayon kag pagsurrender—when you’re frozen between continuing or giving up.
“I almost stopped painting it. I thought it wasn’t good enough. But I pushed through the discomfort. And when I finished it, I felt like I could breathe again. Like I finally came up for air after being underwater too long.”
Andrew’s work is a reminder that healing doesn’t always look triumphant. Sometimes, it’s slow. Sometimes, it’s messy. And sometimes, the most courageous thing is just to keep painting, even when you’re unsure what will come next.
For other artists—or anyone navigating doubt—Andrew has this to say:
“Okay lang mabatyagan nga stuck ka. It doesn’t mean you’re failing—it just means you care. And sometimes, the smallest step, even if it’s imperfect, is already an act of courage.”
Progress, he says, isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s invisible. But it’s happening, and it’s beautiful.
So if you find yourself standing in front of Andrew’s work at the Fine Arts Thesis Exhibit, take a moment. Let it sit with you. Let it remind you that even in stillness, growth is possible—and that you’re never as alone as your thoughts might make you feel.