The blank canvas is the nice part.
The beginning of a house starts with a muddy hole in ground. The most seriously delicious cakes start with floury, milky, eggy goup in a bowl. Even life, in all it's diverse unimaginable glory, starts with messy ole sex. Mess is the real start.
At least that is the trajectory of my art making. I think I have it all figured out. I even play around with a few sketches. And then it starts. Then it crashes.
All those bits, blobs, streaks, dots, etches, swirls, crazy mismatched colours and dried paint are part of the mess. I can sometimes paint a whole day and, at sunset, I have to admit mess wins. I used to turn canvases around so I could bury the mess until the next day. Now it's easier to face the mess. Hello, tell me your secrets! Listen to lines that go to wrong places, dragging helpless colours with them. What was I thinking? Tolerate all the shapes that seem too big, too small, too silly. Hiding in plain site, there is usually a little divine nudge . A spark of harmony, a hint of surprise, a new direction.
I had an art teacher who once said be kind to your mistakes and messes - it will be what makes your work great.
I fear if I am not willing to engage in this relationship, with the mess of art, my work will never find a pulse or visual heartbeat.
Of course I am happy when a painting is finished. But when I view it I can't help remembering and cherishing the lovely mess.