I can never decide what’s more daunting- starting a painting or finishing one. Starting means funneling the often fleeting inspiration into something tangible, translatable. It’s catching the spark and putting it on the canvas before it flitters away, never to be heard from again. Finishing one is a whole different beast. You’ve already put in the hours. You’ve hated the work then loved it then hated it again. But when do you call it?
I’d much rather underwork a painting than overwork it. Unfortunately, I’m prone to the latter. I paint meticulously, tediously, with the tiniest brushes I can get my hands on. That work style lends itself very well to neuroticism. Viewing your work under a magnifying glass (sometimes literally) can mean missing the bigger picture. The vibe suffers. The artists suffers more.
Putting the finishing touch on a painting that was held with a white knuckle grip often feels, for me, like giving up. Like I’ve beaten the horse so beyond death I have no choice but to step back. I’m trying hard to be more free. To paint looser, quicker, without the self-critical devil on my shoulder. I want those final brushstrokes to feel like satisfaction instead of surrender. To step back and be proud of my work instead of looking for all the parts I can keep fucking with.
A painting will tell you when it’s done. An artist will ignore that. I should listen to my paintings more often. After all, they exist to tell a story. Who am I to say I know their ending better?
