Ugh. This painting. For a few years after I painted it I was happy with it. But over time as I lived with it, more and more things began to bother me. Down it came off the wall and back onto the easel. Once again for a few years I was happy with it. And, just like Groundhog Day, over time as I lived with it, more and more things began to bother me. Down it came off the wall, and it is currently back onto the easel.
I have a few choices. I could give up on the bloody thing, by obliterate the entire painting and start over. Or I can continue to wrestle with it. Will I ever be happy with it? Will it ever be done? Will I mess it up more by going at it? I have no idea. But I’m going to try anyway. When all else fails, I remind myself it is just paint.
The other thing I remind myself is something I learned from a colleague who I greatly admire. She encourages her students to “lose your darlings” and by this she means to really examine your work objectively. Sometimes the part of the painting (and I’m sure this goes for other creative endeavors) that you like the most is the same part that is most problematic. Man, it hurts of rip off the bandaid and lose your darling, but it is such an important part of the process.
In this painting, I’ve been holding onto the dark blue area on the top right. I fell in love with the deep, deep blue that reminded me of a still body of water on a humid summer night. Bottomless. I was enamored by its visual and tactile smoothness. During the first rework I convinced myself that layering a bit of color on top did enough to settle the blue and the shape into the composition. My mentor told me otherwise. I didn’t listen then, but I still hear her voice now. I lost my darling by painting it out. After I snapped this photo I painted out more. And even though I have no idea what comes next, now when I look at this painting on the easel I feel relieved.