Things That Grow in the Dark -- or Don't

I've often laughed at a habit of mine -- the tendency I have to check
into the studio between working sessions to see what's happened since
the last time I was there. I'll finish a morning session and then
some hours later be unable to resist opening the door, looking to see
how the morning's painting is going...as if it would be any different
from when I left it.

I've recently realized that this is no laughing matter. In fact,
what's there when I open the door is a sure indicator of whether
things are going well or not. When things are on track, something
does happen between visits. Just as novelists talk about their
characters taking on a life of their own, there's a sense in which a
painting does, too. Whether or not I've consciously mulled things
over, time has passed and I've moved along to a new space. When I
revisit the work-in-progress, new possibilities present themselves,
solutions to problems seem possible, next steps are clarified. It's a
stretch to call this a "dialogue" with the painting, but it's a good
feeling when we're cookin' along together.

Earlier this year, I decided to capture the view toward my studio
window, an idea that's intrigued me every winter, when houseplants and
wintering-over geraniums are clustered together, leaning into the
scarce light. "Winter Window," it would be called, and this year I'd
do it instead of just thinking about it. The scene before me, as shown
in the photo, was my guide.

As I began, I imagined myself down at geranium-level, looking up
through the leaves. I had the plants and the window as models, but
the viewpoint was entirely imaginary. For the first week or so, it
was quite stimulating, but gradually I began to realize that I had no
impulse to check on it during the day. I knew nothing was happening
behind closed doors; somehow, it wasn't giving back.

When JT asked how I was doing and I heard myself say, "Oh, I'm
grinding along on this dumb painting," I knew it was pointless to
spend more time on it. The top part was too empty, and the bottom
part too full -- and no tentative salvage operations made a
difference.

I recalled the words of one of my mentors: Sometimes you can learn
more from a work that fails than from one that succeeds. I recalled
another painting on which I'd pulled the plug -- and the lesson I'd
learned then (two years ago) but forgotten. Some artists could bring
off my idea of "being down among the geraniums" -- but for me, working
only from an idea -- from "imagination" -- is risky business. I need
to start with a strong structural underpinning, a solid pictorial base
-- a lesson I'll try to remember.

So: Goodbye, Winter Window. Maybe another time, in a different way.
For now, it's been turned upside-down and received some preliminary
marks for an entirely different painting that will go over it.

You can view its short failed life -- and ponder how it might be reincarnated here.