When is it time to stop painting?
Even Sugar knows her portrait is not finished.
Once upon a time, I was a writer. I could turn out an article, short story, or even a book so fast it would routinely shock people. And later I was an editor — charged with editing, proofing, and fact-checking others’ writing — and I always exceeded my deadlines.
But those experiences did not prepare me to be an artist.
About 20 years ago, Edna Hibel, an internationally famous artist, tried to explain to me the difference between writing and creating art. I interviewed Edna for a book about her amazing experiences as one of the most successful and prolific females artists in the world. Edna was to be honored by her fan club at an upcoming event. Her family decided it would be great if they had a book with some of her life stories to sell to the hundreds of fans expected to attend. But when they hired me, I had only nine days to interview Edna and write the book. And I was working part-time during the day!
I met with the artist three days in a row for about an hour each time. I asked questions to trigger her stories, taped her comments, and took notes. Each night, I churned out the stories. On day seven, I printed the stories out but couldn’t imagine how to organize them into a book. Trying not to panic, I sat in the middle of my living room with the stack of stories and began describing each one’s content in as few words as possible. The strategy worked. I began arranging the articles in piles around me. For example, one pile was stories from Edna’s childhood, while another was stories about famous people she had met, and another involved her travel experiences. Those and other descriptions became my chapter headings.
On day nine, I turned the book over to the publisher. On day 10, I received a call from Edna.
“I was shocked to get your script,” she said.
My heart stopped. “Didn’t you like it?” I croaked.
“Oh, it’s good, but I don’t work like that.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “How do you work?”
”I take a long time to finish a painting,” she said.
“How long?” I asked.
“I’ve been working on one for 20 years,” Edna said.
“How do you know when to stop painting?” I asked.
“I just keep painting until it’s done,” she said.
And there you have it: I can edit a story quickly — and well — but “editing” my art is a whole different thing. So how do I decide when a painting is really done?
“The Lobster Buoys” was finalized only after I set it aside to observe for a week. Each day, questions occurred to me that begged for answers and, in some cases, action. The process helped me know when this commission was really done. Questions that occurred to me included:
Do I need to put in more buoys? YES.
Is there enough texture on the shack? NO.
Should more buoys be shiny? JUST A FEW.
Are the patterns on buoys varied enough? YES.
Do I have enough different colors on the buoys? NO
Unlike Edna, I haven’t hit the 20-year mark for working on a single painting, but I’ve revised some for months before I made my peace with how they looked. I’ve found that rushing to the finish line is not a good thing with art. Before signing a painting, I:
- Place the “finished” work where I will frequently see it, e.g., in the dining room or near the kitchen. Spotting it unexpectedly makes me more objective. It’s as though I’m looking at some other artist’s painting. Often I notice places that need reworking or another layer of paint.
- Hold the artwork up to a mirror. Something about looking at a mirror image helps me see aspects I missed before.
- Look at the work upside down, or horizontally instead of vertically. Ditto for missed aspects suddenly appearing.
- Ask for respected others’ opinions. Responses to specific questions such as “Is this color too bright?” or “What’s the first thing on the painting you noticed?” are helpful, versus “Do you like it?” is meaningless.
So when is a work of art really finished? I think Edna got it right: I just keep painting until it’s done.
