The Infinite Canvas

 The Infinite Canvas: My Lifelong Apprenticeship in Art

Selfie with a Joan Mitchell painting.

These last twelve years I have been a student of joy, but I’ve learned that in the world of fine art, joy is often hard-won. The pursuit of artistic fulfillment isn't a destination; it is a relentless, beautiful, and occasionally maddening quest. It is a commitment to a curriculum that has no graduation date—a lifelong enrollment in the school of seeing.

Looking Back to the Past

In becoming an artist, I’ve learned that I need to learn more about art history and past artists, those beyond Monet. I’ve found myself captivated by the lively, elegant lines of Giovanni Boldini, the intimate and colorful domesticity of Bonnard, and the flat bright abstraction of Diebenkorn.

Then there is Joan Mitchell*. To see a Mitchell in person is to understand that paint is not just color, but energy. Her massive abstract works demand a physical response; her brushwork is a visceral record of movement. Learning the stories and sensibilities of these masters hasn't just added to my knowledge—it has fundamentally recalibrated my color palette and my courage.

The Artist’s Tools

Tools for an artist are much more complex than paint and brushes. There is an overwhelming world of bristle and steel, pigment and medium, canvas and varnish. Through a cycle of trial, error, and shared wisdom from fellow artists, I am finally finding the tools that work best for me.

Lately, I’ve been enamored with the oil stick. There is something primal and direct about holding a thick, pigmented stick of oil paint. It blurs the line between drawing and painting, allowing me to "write" in color directly onto the surface. It’s a reminder that even after years of study, a new tool can make you feel inspired again.

The Complexity of Light and Pigment

I have come to accept a humbling truth: I will likely be painting for the rest of my life and still feel I have not reached the summit. The "simple" act of color mixing is a rabbit hole of infinite depth. We are taught in childhood that "blue and yellow make green," but the artist knows this is a lie of simplification.

A dash of Ultramarine mixed with Cadmium Yellow Medium creates a green that is worlds away from a mix using Cerulean or Lemon Yellow. When you introduce white, or a neutralizing third color, the possibilities expand exponentially. I’ve spent hours meticulously crafting color charts**—inspired by Richard Schmid’s seminal Alla Prima II—treating them as maps for a territory that is constantly shifting.

One of my Color Charts, note the Cerulean and Ultramarine Blues.

The Language of Art

Art has its own vocabulary. It took me many hours of workshops and painting and reading to fully comprehend terms like half-tone, saturation, and temperature.

I find myself most at home in the world of Alla Prima—working "wet-in-wet." There is a high-stakes thrill in manipulating paint before the air claims it. It requires a presence of mind that is both exhausting and exhilarating; you are negotiating with the medium in real-time.

The Eternal Student

I am, by nature, inquisitive and I believe one needs that curiosity to thrive as an artist. I often feel as though I am enrolled in a self-directed, endless graduate program. My "professors" are the art mentors I consult and the colleagues I debate with, but the most profound discoveries usually happen in the quiet solitude of the studio.

This pursuit is a paradox: it is frustrating, fascinating, and frequently daunting. But more than anything, it is a life lived wide awake. There is always one more shadow to understand, one more harmony to find, and a lifetime of learning left to do.

* This photo was taken at the Phillips Collection, Washington DC and is of me and a Joan Mitchell painting. I highly recommend a trip to the Phillips Collection Museum.

**Richard Schmid's book, The Alla Prima II is a highly revered must-have book for many painters. One chapter encourages artists to create color charts of their palettes (I have done this twice and with each of the 11 colors on my palette).

Art & Subject Matter

The Art of the Choice: Why I Paint What I Paint

Choosing a subject is just the first of a thousand decisions that land on a canvas. While I drift between portraits, landscapes, and abstracts, each discipline offers a unique challenge that keeps me sharp. Here is a look behind my easel at why I choose the subjects I do.

The Human Connection: Portraits

Every Wednesday, a living, breathing costumed model sits before me. There is a specific magic in capturing a likeness—the puzzle of skin tones, the architecture of features, and the spark of an expression. It is a lifelong study in empathy and proportion, fueled by the camaraderie of my art group.

Chasing the Light: Landscapes

In 2016, I fell in love with the challenge of the Great Outdoors. I am a self-proclaimed "fair-weather painter," chasing the lush greens of summer, the gradient of a shifting sky, or the reflection of water in the parks in summer. Throughout the year, I gather photo references so I can keep the warmth of the landscape alive in my studio all through the snowy months.

The Freedom of Form: Abstract

Abstraction was my bridge out of a creative rut. I used to think it was just "slapping paint on a canvas," but I quickly learned it requires a disciplined mastery of color, value, and shape. Now, it is where I feel most "me." There are no models to pose or photos to reference—just my favorite palette, expressive marks, and the pure joy of starting with nothing but an instinct.

The Controlled World: Still Life

My journey began with the deliberate beauty of still life. I remember the hours spent arranging lemons against a copper pot and teal cloth, obsessing over the way light hits a curve. It is a slow, meditative genre. While my focus has shifted toward more fluid subjects recently, the foundational lessons of shadow and form I learned there stay with me in every stroke.

The Bottom Line

My week is a rhythmic dance between these worlds. I might spend Monday and Tuesday longing for Spring trying to paint a vase of winter flowers, Wednesday studying a face, and the rest of the week lost in the layers of an abstract.

Subject matter is the spark, but consistency is the flame. Regardless of the "what," the most important thing is simply to show up and paint.

 

Loving the Holidays, Missing the Studio

The holidays bring a special kind of joy. I love my family deeply, and I treasure the time we spend together. Because we don’t all live in the same state, these gatherings are rare and important opportunities to connect, host, and share traditions. Yet, alongside that love is a quiet longing for my creative space.

From Studio Habit to Holiday Hosting

Most weeks of the year, my life is centered around my studio. Painting has become a solitary habit and a necessary part of my daily rhythm. I am used to the steady flow of thinking, organizing, and making.

During the holidays, my time is redirected toward:

• Preparation: Cooking, baking, shopping, and wrapping gifts.
• Travel: Moving between homes and attending gatherings.
• Presence: Being fully available for social obligations and family time.

The Restlessness of an Artist

While these moments are precious, being away from my work for days at a time creates a sense of restlessness. There is a specific feeling that comes from missing my art—a mental pull back to my paints and my process. It can be overwhelming to balance the social requirements of the season with the desire to retreat into the quiet of my studio.

Looking Forward to the Return

I understand the need to accept this temporary pause, but my mind is already back at my easel. I have cherished the dinners and the time spent with those I love, but I am more than ready to return to my work. The studio is calling, and I cannot wait to get back to the practice that sustains me.

Gratitude For Art Friends

 

Abstract limited Palette

The artistic journey often requires solitude. Most of my creative work happens in the studio, a space that can sometimes feel isolating. In these moments—whether celebrating a success, working through a frustration, or developing a new idea—I need connection. My artistic fulfillment would be greatly lessened without the support of my art community.

My art friends are truly the best people I know: kind, generous, and supportive. They form a unique circle that offers encouragement without jealousy. They are the kindred spirits who uniquely understand that my career is "Artist" and that making art is my central purpose.

I am deeply thankful for their guidance and expertise. They are an essential resource, offering invaluable advice and critiques on every aspect of my practice: from selecting the right supplies, recommending books, and finding workshops, to indulging deep conversations about color mixing, theory, and brush types.

This network of support is vital:

• I rely on my monthly critique group for thoughtful corrections that help me break through creative blocks.

• I have a friend I can call for immediate assistance and a fresh perspective when I am stuck.

• I am inspired by the friend whose studio focus motivates me during our chats.

• I have companions I can count on for shared plein air painting adventures.

• I cherish my weekly painting group, a space to gather, share ideas, and simply escape into paint.

To every artist in this circle, I offer my sincere gratitude. Knowing I can reach out to them when I feel lost or stuck is the greatest gift to my creative practice.

Absence of Expectation

One painting from the Midnight Series

Getting to sleep has, lately, become a nightly struggle. I lie in the quiet dark, a captive audience to my racing mind, where thoughts churn, refusing to let me sleep. Exhaustion settles deep, yet rest remains elusive, leading to hours spent reading, writing, and watching time pass.

One restless evening, as I performed a late tidying of my studio, a defiant thought took root: If midnight finds me still awake, I will return and paint. It was a spontaneous plan to reclaim the lost hours through creative action.

Now, I perform a small ritual before bed. I prep a canvas for an abstract painting, laying down the initial marks with Payne’s Grey and Gamsol. With a thin brush, I trace dark, searching lines, loops, and marks—a form of night drawing—allowing this foundation to dry overnight, ready for the infusion of color. I ensure a few clean brushes are waiting, ready to meet the fresh, residual paint often still waiting on my palette from the day before.

When the clock hand sweeps past the witching hour and the familiar restlessness persists, I rise. The walk to the studio is quiet and deliberate. Under the electric light, I begin to layer the color—a feverish, half-awake burst of action using oil sticks, drawing oils, or the waiting brushes. This intense, midnight session of creation rarely lasts longer than thirty minutes.

The profound benefit of these nocturnal sessions is the absence of expectation. In the deep silence, there is no pressure to achieve ‘greatness,’ no need for cognitive engagement in perfect design or calculated color theory. It is a pure, unburdened process of instinctive mark-making, allowing the materials themselves to guide the hand.

The following morning, I return to the studio, seeing the night’s impulsive gestures in the clarity of day. The chaotic foundation is transformed into the deliberate starting point for a finished work, turning a cycle of lost sleep into the beginning of an unexpected new series which I call The Midnight Series.

Questions and The Artist's Mind

 My Mind is a constant engine of questions about art. I am always exploring color, paint application, and the critical step of what to do next. The act of painting is driven by a strong internal dialogue. The core questions are persistent:

• Does this work? Do these elements connect and hold together?
• Will these colors harmonize?
• Does it need more or less? 

• Is it finished?

Watermelon Song 102725

There is a common misconception that art is effortless or carefree. I have found the opposite to be true. Art is demanding and deeply fulfilling work. As Artists, we don't just paint; we research, write, explore, and ask questions. 

Ultimately, the physical act of painting is my vital outlet; it is the concrete and rewarding work that finally addresses my mind's endless churning. 

Finding Motivation

All Artists go through slumps where they lose their motivation. These last few weeks between the grey weather and my last few painting failures, I have struggled with finding motivation.  I took the quest to find motivation to my Art Critique group.

Motivation Advice:

1. Be Kind to yourself
2. Don't Compare Yourself to Others.
3. Explore Another Medium (since I am an Oil Painter it was suggested that I try Watercolor or Acrylics).
4. Attend your Art Critique and/or talk other Artists.
5. Pre-plan/Pack Art Supplies the Night before. Put supplies in order and in the car. Get your studio ready the night before (set up, brushes washes, canvas out). Be ready to go the next morning.
6. Just Show Up-get into the studio.
7. Set a timer and paint for 30 minutes (start and show up).
8. Get a huge canvas 30x40 and paint (play with paint/no plan), just be expressive.
9. Start with works that need touch ups/small fixes to loosen up before starting a new painting.
10. Get outside (no canvas no paint) just look around and identify the colors and how you would paint them.
11. Set up and paint a still life with items from home (shells, toys etc).
12. Challenge yourself to paint with a limited palette.

Books Recommended:

The War of Art

Art & Fear

Daily Painting

Honestly,  it was wonderful to talk to artists about motivation and to hear their thoughts about it. The discussion alone made me feel more positive and motivated. Thank You Art Friends.