Blog

A little while ago, I sent "Teeming Waters" off to its new home in Alaska. Although I was very satisfied to have fulfilled a commission and made a patron happy, I always feel a bit of a let-down at the end of a project. The creative process is a series of emotional ups and downs. 

The beginning is always exciting, so full of potential. Animated by a concept I want to explore, I eagerly sketch out ideas and sort through stacks of clippings to assemble my palette. No matter how many I have saved, it's never enough. I flip through more magazines, looking for the clippings that will make this piece fabulous. "You're about to do great work," says a little voice in my heart of hearts.

The middle is agonizing. The accumulated choices I've made along the way -- this clipping instead of that, place it here instead of there -- close off more and more of the possibilities that existed at the start. I'm committed to a particular direction, and the reality of my creation seems so far from my vision for it. "Arrrgh!" Hundreds of scraps lie strewn about my workspace, and not one of them is the exact shade of blue that I'm looking for. It's so far from what I envisioned; it's a disaster. I keep working away at it, but I'm in despair. 

Nearing the end, hope returns. It's starting to pull together. There are parts of the work that I really like. There are also some parts I still don't like, but I'm working on those. I feel that each mark I make, each clipping that I place, makes a specific contribution. My satisfaction grows. "I've done this before. I know what I'm doing. I can make this happen."

Eventually the last piece is laid; I photograph the work. Oops! It wasn't the last piece after all; I see something in the photograph that needs to be fixed, something overlooked that suddenly seems glaring. I make one teensy change, then another. And again. And again. At last I reach a point where I could continue to make changes, but I can no longer make it better. Now it's really and truly complete -- hooray!

But also -- alas! For a commissioned piece, the time has come for us to part ways forever. An exhibition piece may float in and out of my possession, but I have to face the thought of never seeing it again. Even if it turns out to be a piece that never sells, I'll never again be as intimately involved with it as I was while creating it. The hours that we spent together in deepest conversation have come to an end. Every work begins in eagerness and ends with a slight sense of mourning.

Thankfully, it's always time to move on to the next. The cycle begins again.