Learning the Technique, Then Letting It Go

Lately, I’ve been spending time in the studio deliberately working on technique—particularly translucency, layering, and the way light can seem to move through a painting rather than simply sit on its surface.

It has been an interesting exercise because I discovered something I probably already knew about myself: I can learn from a process, but eventually I have to stop following it. When I work too carefully from instructions, I begin concentrating on whether I am doing something “correctly.” The painting becomes an exercise. That can be useful for learning, but it isn't necessarily where my best work happens.

My natural way of painting is much looser.

I respond to what is happening on the canvas. A color changes another color. A mark suggests movement. Something unexpected appears beneath a layer, and suddenly the painting begins moving in a direction I hadn't planned.

That is usually when I become most interested.

The recent studies have still been valuable. I have been paying closer attention to transparent layers, softened edges, buried forms, and the way light can appear to refract through color. Those ideas are beginning to become part of the visual language I already use.

But I don't want technique to become the subject of the painting.

I want it to become something I can call upon almost instinctively—another way of creating the atmosphere, distance, movement, and quiet sense of mystery that continually find their way into my work.

Perhaps that is part of developing as an artist: learning enough to expand what you can do and then trusting yourself enough to let go of the instructions.

For me, the most exciting moment still comes when I stop thinking about what I am supposed to paint and begin responding to what I see emerging.

That is when the painting starts to feel like mine again.