Aeneas Middleton / Artist Bio
I see my art through dreams that become reality. My father named me after the Trojan Hero Aeneas. I express myself as if I were him, living thousands of years later using ancient techniques of colors layered over themselves. Sometimes, I used synesthesia to create my art. An art process that allows me to be free as an eagle using sound.
I'm never scared to be different. I want to communicate these dreams or visions, to show human emotion that hasn’t been touched yet. Using colors that immediately strike people when they seem them.
In the end, it’s about being Aeneas. Staying true to myself. For my mother has taught me well. All of my paintings start with one brush stroke and become a creative vision that illuminates over time."
To inquire about Middleton’s available works, contact Michele Colonna at michele@colonnacontemporary.com
Featured Works
36” x 36” Mixed Media canvas.
A charged space where knowledge, instinct, and order collide.
Layered symbols, markings, and fractured lines form a universal language—one that transcends words and binds science, myth, and society together. At the center of this coded environment, the goat stands as the silent witness: seeing, hearing, and understanding all. Both observer and conduit, it channels the rhythms of the universe into the structure of human systems, reminding us that
beneath civilization’s noise lies an ancient, shared intelligence connecting everything.
36” x 48” Mixed Media canvas.
Behold him thus, a soldier shown too near,
His visage caught where heaven meets the dust.
The world stands false beneath him; Earth itself
Hangs like a faith unmoored from former vows.
He stands inverted, sworn against all sense,
His feet set firm upon the yielding sky,
Whilst gravity, that ancient tyrant, turns
And climbs his body as a creeping doubt.
This is no fall, but treason slow and sure,
A lifting wrought by laws gone traitor-wise.
The ground releases him with patient hands,
As if the globe conspired against its own.
Upon his skin are writ compulsive marks,
Signs learned in camps where men outlive their fear,
To bind the moist air to its proper place
Lest breath, betrayed, should flee his nostrils’ gate.
For water knows the call of rising force,
As blood knows panic, memory knows shame.
Yet still his eye keeps watch, unblinking, sworn,
A sentinel where reason must command.
The colours bleed aloft like wounded prayers,
And time itself grows thick, reluctant, slow.
This is not war in thunder, steel, or flame,
But war within—the standing when all turns.
Thus lives the soldier: not by strength alone,
But by the art of knowing where to breathe
When Earth denies him down, and heaven pulls
With gentle cruelty, and will must rule.