waiting is creating

I am not a “wait and it will come to me” sort of artist. Whether it’s a picture in my mind or an actual photograph commission, I want it on the paper now. Don’t get me wrong, I love the process of creating art. But I want that process to be seamless, to flow from brush to paper without skipping a beat.

With all mediums, but especially watercolor, that is a ridiculous expectation.

Sometimes [read: all the time] watercolor accepts some minor nudging but mostly it just want to flow. Free movement, organic color mixing - isn’t that the point of watercolor?

But I just can’t accept it. So I paint those waving grasses again and again as the picture in my mind and the drips from my brush become muddier and muddier. This time. This time. This time. And eventually the a.m. hour puts an end to the cycle and I go wash my face and wonder if I’m any good at this art thing after all. If I’m not careful, it’s far too easy to spin that outwards and wonder if I’m any good at any of the things my hands and mind touch.

Thinking like that is a certain way to make terrible art. Sometimes the right inspiration comes along at the right time, and this time it is art made of words. In her book, A Million Little Ways, Emily P. Freeman says describes the process of making art like baking bread:

“I want to make the dough with my own hands, but my hands make mistakes and I hate my own failures. I don’t see results, so instead of waiting in faith I curse the art altogether. This is a waste of my time. We don’t like to waste our time. The mere idea of “waiting time” is laughable, really. If the dictionary is right and waste means “an act or instance of using or expending something carelessly, extravagantly, or to no purpose.” And if time is “the continued progress of existence,” then could wasting time be translated as “extravagantly existing”? Might it be worth the risk?”

She is right.

When I wake up the next morning, the sun is shining on my easel. The sun-catcher in my window is throwing rainbow lights around the room. And the paint has rested, settled into the fibers of the paper, and found the tones that eluded me last night. Muddy areas have nuance. The burnt umber and cobalt shadows are not overwhelming. The yellow tips weren’t a bad idea after all. It was all there; I just needed to wait.

Thank you, Emily, for the reminder: waiting is creating too.