Buckle up, its time to sift through this messy brain.
The art of finishing art.
At every art show I have ever exhibited at, I’m always asked this question at least once: “how do you know when a painting is done?”
Damn good question, might I say.
My work is in a state of flux right now, so it’s even harder to tell when it is complete.
But completeness is a tricky thing – it’s completely subjective and varies through time, altered by experience.
As artists I’m sure we’ve all been guilty of that battle of not knowing when to call a painting done. Overworking it until we become so sick of the piece, rejecting it in the end.
We’ve all been there. Right? Can’t just be me…
As I go through life, and experience the nightmares and the delights, my idea of perfection has been skewed. Perfection used to seem like a shiny trophy sitting high on the shelf, always out of reach but still within sight. Something to strive for.
And not just for artwork, but for everything. Enduring 3AM study sessions to snag those perfect grades, bending over backwards for that (now long-gone) friend that so clearly was using me, and so many missed opportunities because I was too busy fretting that my presentation wasn’t ready.
My idea of perfect & complete has changed drastically over the years, to the point where I’m beginning to reject the idea of them. Perfection no longer seems like something to strive for – it seems like a barrier, something that keeps you perpetually unsatisfied with your results. And completion is along the same lines – putting all your focus on “finishing” a painting is taking away from the joyous experience that it is supposed to be.
And what about the fact that everyone has individual tastes, and that one artist’s idea of a completed painting doesn’t come even close to measuring up to the perspective that another viewer has?
Comments like “where is the rest of it” or “why did you stop” burn the heart and soul like ice and fire at the same time.
This idea of a completed painting can be stifling – in my experience it has halted growth and acts more like bonds rather than wings.
Years ago I was stiff in my practice, I felt unhappy with what I was producing and ultimately felt like my work and practice were lacking soul. I would sink hours into tiny insignificant details that only I knew existed, and painted myself into some steely handcuffs.
Then a friend at the time suggested that I do something crazy (“crazy” – that is how it felt at the time) and challenge myself to do a few paintings in under an hour each. From first brush stroke to the finishing one.
It was one of the best decisions I have ever made for my art and creative process. It unlocked something in me, and I find myself revisiting this challenge now and then when I start to feel stiff in my ways again. It breaks the chains, sheds the binding scaly skin that forms. It sets me free.
Constantly chasing that completed form, that final brush stroke – it removes the significance of the journey. It’s throwing away every moment between the first and last brush strokes, so it makes me wonder what the point even is?
If you are so focused on just getting to the end, do you even enjoy the process of painting? Of pouring your soul onto a canvas, crawling into a head space where you are free and alive.
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Don’t miss out on the journey.
Fall back in love with the process, let yourself be whisked away by the fluid thoughts.
Get in tune with your emotions, let them guide your choices.
If your heart is telling you to obscure the detail under a thick layer of buttery oil paint then listen to it.
If it wants you to dig into a hyper-realistic mode in the eyes and let the rest fade away into abstract, then dig in and see where it takes you.
Release the shackles on your artistic heart, and fly. Explore the thoughts that are flooding through your head, and play.
Pause and feel the brush strokes, the way the stiff bristles of your brush flick over the canvas texture.
Drip water or paint thinner over your wet paint and watch it degrade, leaving the most gorgeous textures behind.
Spend some time mixing a bright and enticing colour with a pallet knife, and just letting the paint influence your emotions.
When the perspective of casual viewers conflicts with your own ideas, let it rest. Don’t react like an explosion, take it for what it is. Understand that tastes are unique, and that you cannot please everyone.
You cannot please everyone.
This scares a lot of people, but I’ve learned that it is so incredibly freeing. You don’t have to cater to the masses – you just have to find those unique souls out there that will resonate with your work.
And by being yourself, digging into your spirit and using it to fuel your brush strokes, you will attract those wonderful souls.
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