When you see a finished painting, it can be difficult to imagine everything that came before it. The changes of direction, the layers that disappeared beneath other layers, the colours that were added and then covered over, and the moments when I stood back and wondered whether the painting was actually working at all.
For me, creating an abstract painting is rarely a straightforward journey from an initial idea to a finished piece. It is much more intuitive than that. Each painting develops gradually, and often unexpectedly, through a process of experimentation, instinct and response.
Where Does a Painting Begin?
Inspiration can come from almost anywhere. It might begin with a colour combination, a feeling, a memory, a landscape, a dream or simply something that has caught my attention.
I don't necessarily begin with a precise image of what the finished painting will look like. In fact, part of the enjoyment of painting is allowing the work to develop naturally rather than trying to control every element from the outset.
There is usually an initial direction, but it is just that — a direction. Once paint begins to go onto the canvas, the painting starts to reveal itself.
Choosing the Colours
Colour is an incredibly important part of my work.
Sometimes I begin with a particular palette in mind; at other times, one colour leads naturally to another. The relationship between colours can completely change the mood of a painting, so there is a great deal of experimentation along the way.
A colour that seems perfect in isolation may feel completely wrong once it is on the canvas. Another, perhaps unexpected, colour can suddenly bring everything together.
This is one of the reasons I rarely regard a decision as permanent during the early stages of a painting.
Building the Layers
One of the things I love about original paintings is their depth.
A finished piece may contain many layers, some clearly visible and others almost completely hidden beneath the surface. Even the layers you can no longer see play a part in the finished work.
I add paint, remove it, cover areas, reveal others and continually respond to what is happening on the canvas. Texture develops. Marks appear and disappear. Areas that once felt important may eventually become only a tiny glimpse beneath another layer.
This process gives an original painting something that is very difficult to reproduce. When you stand in front of it, particularly in changing light, you begin to notice details that aren't always immediately apparent.
When a Painting Isn't Working
Not every studio day goes according to plan.
There are times when I know something isn't working but don't immediately know why. Adding more paint isn't always the answer. Sometimes the best thing I can do is stop, step away from the canvas and return to it later with fresh eyes.
Other times, the solution involves being quite brave.
An area I particularly like may have to disappear because it isn't right for the painting as a whole. A colour may need to change completely. Occasionally, the entire direction of a painting shifts.
These moments can be frustrating, but they are also an important part of the creative process. Some of the most interesting elements of a finished painting can emerge from something that initially felt like a mistake.
Knowing When to Stop
Perhaps one of the hardest parts of creating an abstract painting is knowing when it is finished.
There isn't a checklist.
I spend a great deal of time looking at a painting from different distances and at different times of day. I may turn it, move it somewhere else in the studio or leave it alone for a while.
There comes a point when adding something else no longer improves the work — it simply changes it.
That is usually when I know it is time to stop.
The Story You Don't Always See
By the time one of my paintings is ready to leave the studio, it may be very different from the painting I originally imagined.
And I think that is part of what makes original art so special.
The finished canvas contains not only the visible colours, textures and marks, but also the history of its creation. Beneath the surface are earlier ideas, decisions, changes, mistakes and discoveries.
When someone chooses one of my paintings for their home, they are not simply buying something to fill a space on a wall. They are choosing an original piece that has evolved slowly and individually — something that didn't exist before I began and can never be created in exactly the same way again.
For me, that journey from a blank canvas to a finished painting is one of the most rewarding parts of being an artist.
And although the collector ultimately sees the finished piece, there is an entire story beneath the surface.