I don't usually know where a painting is going when I begin. If I did, I think I'd lose some of the curiosity that keeps me coming back to the studio.
Maybe that's why it surprised me when I stepped back this year and started noticing relationships between the work. Certain colors returned. Similar movements appeared. There was a familiarity in the work that I hadn't noticed while I was creating it. It wasn't something I planned. It was something I noticed.
Last year was the first year I was able to fully focus on my art. Looking back, I've realized that having more time didn't just allow me to create more work. It also allowed me to better understand the way I create.
One of the things I noticed is that when I have long stretches of uninterrupted time, I paint. When my time is more segmented, I naturally gravitate toward watercolor, washes, or digital work. I never consciously decided that. It's simply the rhythm I've fallen into.
The same has been true of the paintings themselves.
I've never set out to define what I wanted my body of work to be. I don't sit down and think, "This year I'm going to create work about this." I honestly don't know what's going to emerge when I begin making marks, and I think that's part of what keeps the process exciting. If I already knew the answer, I don't think I'd be as curious to begin.
When I create, I lose track of time. There aren't really words. Color, value, texture, and movement begin to emerge, and I simply respond to what's happening in front of me. It's a rhythm that's difficult to explain. The more I try to control it, the more disconnected I become from it.
I've noticed that when I try to render something too perfectly or make something look exactly the way I imagined it, I lose that connection. I stop responding to the painting and start trying to direct it. For me, that's usually when the work begins to lose some of its life.
Stepping back has taught me something else.
When I'm in the middle of a painting, I'm often focused on individual passages. I can convince myself that a piece isn't finished because I'm looking too closely. It isn't until I physically step back that I can see whether the painting has unity. I'm looking for color, value, and movement. If I keep working simply because I think I should, I often lose the looseness and gestural movement that attracted me to the piece in the first place.
As I looked across a year's worth of work, I realized the same thing was happening on a larger scale.
The collections I have today weren't something I planned. They emerged because I finally had enough distance to recognize recurring colors, familiar movements, and similar emotional threads. I wasn't trying to make the paintings fit together. Looking back, I realized they already did.
I think it's easy to become focused on finding a style or creating work that feels cohesive. There are also moments when comparison and the fear of how our work will be perceived can become louder than our own intuition. I enjoy following other artists' journeys, but I've also realized that every artist's path is different. I think that's what makes it beautiful.
If there's one thing I've learned over the past year, it's that I don't want to lose my curiosity.
I don't want to define the outcome before I begin.
I want to keep experimenting without fear.
Because I have a feeling that's where growth happens.
Not by forcing a body of work into existence, but by staying connected to the process long enough for one to reveal itself.
And maybe that's what stepping back has shown me most of all. Sometimes we don't recognize our own growth while we're living it. Sometimes we only see it when we give ourselves enough distance to look again.
