On Starting a Painting

I was asked last week “But how do you start a painting?”

“Do you have an idea of what it will look like when you begin? Or something that you want to say? Is it hard? Do you have a specific process?” To answer the last four: No. Yes. No. Sort of.

It’s a topic that gets discussed from time to time in artist circles: the dreaded “blank canvas syndrome”. The fear of making the first mark that breaks that smooth whiteness, of not knowing what to paint, of somehow making a mark that will doom the painting to endless struggle or failure. Maybe it’s really a fear that that we won’t succeed in creating the work that we have in our mind’s eye, that we won’t live up to the limitless potential of that vast expanse of pristine white.

In any case, to loop back to the first question above, I have very little idea what a painting will look like when I start. I may have a thought that will direct my first moves, but like children, paintings quickly take on a direction of their own. I don't have a specific message I want a painting to illustrate, although this frenetic and anxious time, I think I am seeking a measure of beauty and calm. I'm interested in the way places and experiences feel, and in channeling the many threads of that experience: colour, sound, data, place, movement. There is an ease to a workflow that follows these threads, and allows the painting to evolve freely.

Process

As to my process, I first build a relationship with it as an object—learning the character of its surface.

Each cradled panel starts with a coat to seal the wood, followed by two coats of gesso. In the process of doing this I learn where the panel has irregularities in the surface—maybe a strong grain, or a small ding or two.

For the canvasses that I use for larger work, I sometimes buy pre-built and stretched canvasses, or I sometimes stretch my own. As I stretch and prime a canvas, I can control the tension of the surface, and learn where there might be irregularities in the weave. Even for pre-primed canvasses, I run my hands over the surface to pick up its character and notice any irregularities.

Once the primer coats are done, I protect the edges of the piece with tape to keep them clean during the process of making the painting.

The "Connecting" Layer

The next step is a final layer of gesso that I apply with a trowel or squeegee. This layer will be uneven, with marks left by the tool. Sometimes I deliberately incise lines into it. This layer starts to create direction in the surface, and it’s the first step in building the internal story of the painting. It’s the connecting skin between the “blank” piece, and the mark-making conversation that becomes a painting. Conceptually, it's gone beyond being a preparatory layer, but it contains only the seeds of where the painting will go. From here I continue the process of responding to the surface and infusing the painting with my intentions and explorations. Experiment and pause. Risk and retreat.