I find the easiest mark to make is the first one. It’s irrelevant. Yes, it will point to a direction, set a pitch, hint at a tone, and suggest an interpretation, but hours, days, weeks on weeks deep into a canvas, those first scribbles, however well-intentioned, planned out, and seemingly infused with the potency of a first love . . . are just memories embraced with a certain nostalgia best reflected on as a passing fancy. It’s the business at hand, as playful and effortless as I strive to make it seem, which gloriously guides me, leading toward the precipice of the very last mark to be made . . . that’s the nagging voice keeping me ever vigilant. When is enough, really enough? And each and every paintings comes to fruition with a quietly whispered benediction of thanks, for the clarity of knowing when to stop.
And so it goes . . . a new stack of stretchers awaiting the easiest mark . . . the canvas above, in six views toward the hardest mark . . . and those finalized in the knowing when.
Thanks for reading.