Why paint?

There is no reason to paint.  Do it because it feels good.  Maybe it doesn't feel good for a long time.  Maybe it's boring.  But at some point, it feels good.  Maybe finishing the painting does feel good, because it still doesn't look quite right.  Maybe getting it right next time feels good.  But then it stops feeling good after a while.  Getting more money than last time feels good.  Then you wonder if you should raise the price again, but I'm not producing, and I'm not getting any commissions.  I have to start producing again, if I want commissions, if I want the money.

So it's for the money?  I don't need the money, so I don't need to paint.  No, it's not about the money.  It can't be about the money.  Money maybe comes with art, but most of the time it goes.

There can't be a reason to paint.  Paint just to paint.  Yeah, machine learning, AI, computers can make awesome art.  Prism is incredible.  I feel like I can't even compete with that.  It balances color, style, texture, contrast.  I feel like it does what I do with a painting, but better and faster.  And I think about how most people interact with paintings.  People spend a few seconds looking at it, then walk on or scroll down.  I might spend months on a piece that gets the same amount of attention as a Prism photo that took no effort.

Do people want paintings?  Yeah, I guess they do.  But I could just run a photo through prism and copy the result onto a canvas.  Or print it there.  But people want it to be original, hand-made.  I could still just copy it from a Prism picture.

But that's not my style.  I develop the painting like a sketch.  I don't have an end point in mind.  I just put down layers until I like the way it looks.  I talk to myself and vacillate between accepting myself and not being good enough--the painting kind of goes through that, too.

The process is what's important, because it is meditation, because I like my life more when I'm meditating regularly, because it's important that I like my life.  That's why paint.  Because I like my life when I paint.

trying something new

It might be a mistake to use unique colors for the eyes--or, really, for any part of the painting for that matter.

Using the surrounding palette on the eyes might make the painting feel more confusing.  That might be a good thing.  There might still be room for a unique tone in the eyes, but I will have to experiment.

The same thought process had me remove the dark blue / black and replace it with cobalt green.  It was more confusing, but I just couldn't give it enough teeth without that dark blue tone.  It never felt very strong, and I suppose that doesn't mean it wasn't working.  It wasn't working for me.  Maybe everyone else would have loved it.  I will never know.

Patience

Flip it upside down.  The shapes will be more true to life.  The brush movements are limited by your hand--flipping the painting upside down opens things up.  The movements are still limited by your hand, but now those movements are upside down, and the whole painting looks more diverse as a result.

It might take months.  It might take years before this one is finished.

I think in Tropic of Cancer Henry Miller was describing the internet when he describes the book he'll write to change the world.

It might be done in a few minutes.  There's discord in the background.

I'm trying to understand this new process as it develops.  Is this sketching?  No, it's more like therapy.  I'm just trying to be present with what's happening in front of me.  I'm trying to observe.  I'm trying not to control.  I'm trying too much.

Paint.  Notice the paint, the texture, the shape, the color, the interactions.  Paint.  Notice.  Paint.  Notice.I suppose what I'm actually doing is painting, noticing, and waiting for acceptance.  The painting is finished when I reach acceptance.

It's taking too long

I've been working on this cat for months.  I started it before I moved into this house.  I have the feeling I started it over on WSD, but could have been before that.  Months.  And moves.

There is a painting I started more than 10 years ago.  Maybe around 2003, I would guess.  It's the bald guy with the horns.  I think I'll finish it someday.

This one is different.  I have been actively working on it for months.  To be fair, there have been weeks that I haven't painted at all.  And there have been tons of days I have only worked on it for a few minutes.  But there have been plenty of days I have poured hours into it.  It's been on the brink of completion several times--well, twice.  Maybe three times.  Lately the end has seemed close, but today, just minutes ago, I realized the destination of this process is quite a lot of work away.

I have some thoughts about it.  A painting shouldn't take this long.  I'm forcing it, I'm not doing it right.  I'm too relaxed, I'm not technically skilled enough.  I should pay more attention to the details.  It should be more detailed.  It is too detailed.  I'm a terrible painter.  I'm embarrassing myself.  I'm wasting my time.  It is unrealistic to believe that I could paint something worthwhile.

Have the thoughts, continue painting.

The truth is that I'm not just painting a cat, I'm developing a style, I'm discovering a process.  This painting does not look like paintings I have done before.  Maybe it will be trash.  Maybe this process makes things terrible.

More thoughts, continue painting.

Type up some stuff to avoid painting.

Unhelpful thoughts

I'm inundated with unhelpful thoughts--within painting and without.  These thoughts keep me from painting, and they hinder effective painting.  They say I should find the perfect song to paint to, and having found that perfect song, they say I should find the next perfect song, and the next, and the next.  They say I should check my email or Facebook or reddit.  They say I should keep looking for the perfect color to start with, and find the perfect area of the canvas to start the work.  They say I should go for a run or lift weights or watch a documentary.  They say I deserve a break, they say it would do me good to sit on the couch with the cat.

And in the midst of painting, they say, "That brushstroke wasn't quite right, better fix it."  They tell me this painting will never be good, they tell me I've never painted anything worthwhile.  They tell me no one really likes anything I've painted.  They tell me I'm not really good.  They tell me I'm not good enough to impress a stranger.  I'm not good enough to make a living from painting.  They tell me I'm a phony, that anyone could do it, that I'm just fooling everyone.  They tell me I'm going to fuck up what I'm working on.  They tell me I'm not a real artist, they tell me I should be able to paint this or that--epic battle scenes, delicate fairy wings, whatever it is.  They tell me a real artist would be able to paint those things.

And those are just thoughts.  I don't have to do anything with them.  I can just notice them.  I can thank them or laugh.  But I don't have to check my email.  It doesn't matter what I listen to.  It doesn't matter what color I start with or where I put it.  All that matters is that I'm there with a picture and my supplies and I'm putting paint on a surface.