A Better answer
2011 · 09 · 22
I just had a quick exchange I was meeting for the first time. I gave him my business card and he asked me a couple of pointed questions. As I was heading out the door at that moment, my responses where concise and somewhat pithy. For instance, his best question was "How do you know a painting is finished?"
I gave him the thumbnail of two different workflows, one which has a very clear objective which defines the moment the work is finished and the other which is more experimental and exploratory. The second method I said I knew I was finished when I "was bored of working on it." This is a very misleading way of talking about my work.
The real truth behind knowing when a painting is finished, no matter the work flow, is process. Whether the subject matter is clearly chosen or is allowed to form itself, paint is a tactile and plastic media which is subject to changing shapes on it's own as well as under control of my hand. Therefore, in order to determine if the painting is indeed complete, I have to relinquish a great amount of control over the results.
Every moment I am working on a new piece, I have several internal battles waging at once.
"Is this stroke necessary?"
"Should I put that color here?"
"Has a story developed?"
"Does thus reflect my emotional state, right now?"
"Should I stop?"
"Is the painting satisfied?"
During the course of this process, I can hear the answers not through an internal voice or an audible voice but through visual feedback. As I sense the control shift away from my conscious decisions into the subconscious or innate aspects, this feedback becomes the pleasureful experience of watching an infographic fill up in real time.
There is a palatable moment of release, which lends itself to parallels and connotations with sex, when control returns across the threshold which separates the ego-driven mind from the intrinsic self. Experience has taught me that continuing to paint passed this moment greatly increases the opportunity to overwork and even destroy the beautiful thing which just unfolded itself in front of my eyes. Joy becomes labor. Thrill transmutes into a chore and the love making becomes dutiful rutting.
Thus, I am finished. Therefore, time for a coffee, a smoke and some miserable attempt to recount the experience using words.
I gave him the thumbnail of two different workflows, one which has a very clear objective which defines the moment the work is finished and the other which is more experimental and exploratory. The second method I said I knew I was finished when I "was bored of working on it." This is a very misleading way of talking about my work.
The real truth behind knowing when a painting is finished, no matter the work flow, is process. Whether the subject matter is clearly chosen or is allowed to form itself, paint is a tactile and plastic media which is subject to changing shapes on it's own as well as under control of my hand. Therefore, in order to determine if the painting is indeed complete, I have to relinquish a great amount of control over the results.
Every moment I am working on a new piece, I have several internal battles waging at once.
"Is this stroke necessary?"
"Should I put that color here?"
"Has a story developed?"
"Does thus reflect my emotional state, right now?"
"Should I stop?"
"Is the painting satisfied?"
During the course of this process, I can hear the answers not through an internal voice or an audible voice but through visual feedback. As I sense the control shift away from my conscious decisions into the subconscious or innate aspects, this feedback becomes the pleasureful experience of watching an infographic fill up in real time.
There is a palatable moment of release, which lends itself to parallels and connotations with sex, when control returns across the threshold which separates the ego-driven mind from the intrinsic self. Experience has taught me that continuing to paint passed this moment greatly increases the opportunity to overwork and even destroy the beautiful thing which just unfolded itself in front of my eyes. Joy becomes labor. Thrill transmutes into a chore and the love making becomes dutiful rutting.
Thus, I am finished. Therefore, time for a coffee, a smoke and some miserable attempt to recount the experience using words.