The Process of Art

Standing before the fresh canvas, he took out his sketchbook and brainstormed. While in art school, he was indebted to the professor’s prompts. Now, faced with the blank canvas stretched before him, he felt as empty and blank as the canvas. Groaning, he pushed and rolled his shoulders. Taking his sketchbook with him, he wandered the college art halls, wondering what prompts lay behind them. But none of those designs spoke to him. He switched from examining color expression and composition to patterns and design. Scruffling his hands through his hair, he felt uninspired. It had already been a couple of weeks since he finished anything noteworthy. How had he composed those pieces?

Stepping out into the sunlight, he felt the sun's warmth on his face and saw the vivid green of spring grass. Flowers budded on their stems, but there was no certainty that winter had passed. There was still a tangible threat of frost if the temperature dipped too low at night– the pendulum swing of the midwestern climate. He paused to watch a bright-colored sparrow ascend and descend in spirals, attempting to impress his lady friend. Scratching the stubble on his chin, he wondered how he might interpret the idea of love to canvas. The motif did not quite sound right for him.

Continuing his walk, he found himself captivated by the shadow-dappled sidewalk as the midday sun filtered down through gently wind-rustled leaves, but how would he capture motion without it turning into a cluttered mess? Disregarding it, he made it toward the main buildings, bastions of decades past; their facades crumbled and cracked away, revealing their lack of true masonry. Fascads were always intriguing and spoke something of humanity. Making a note of how the plaster cracked and fell, he sketched a thumbnail to try and get a suitable composition.

Eventually, he discovered his walk outside was as fruitful as his previous walk down the art hall. Frowning, he returned to the workshop and his blank canvas. Maybe this was one of the times he simply had to start; taking out his pencil, he drew a giant ‘x’ on the canvas and erased it. Now, the canvas was no longer perfect; he used his hand and smudged some graphite onto the canvas. As he moved his hands, the large chunk of graphite in his hand, he began making angles and planes shifting away from the center of the canvas.

These shards became bits of wall and stone, shaped into a shattered facade. Beneath it, using a pencil, he added additional details as he saw them inside his mind. He created thony vines beyond the walls—a reclamation of nature from the meddling of humans and winter’s bite. The poised reclamation of spring is waiting behind winter as he piles snow upon the walls. Once the under-sketching is complete, he decides on color blocking, the darkest parts of his painting and the lightest ones to draw the viewer’s focus inward. He worked the tones in the middle from darkest to lightest to ensure he got the proper gradients. But, before long, he realized that the painting lacked something important. Using another piece of graphite, he drew a rudimentary doorway, open and waiting; beyond it was a beautiful gardenscape with rolling hills of flowers, a scene within a scene. Stepping back to examine the piece as a whole, he could not help but feel a few steps forward, and he could enter it himself. Picking up his supplies and easel, he left his painting to dry at the back of one of the classrooms. If not careful, he could muddle the whole design by painting the rest of the details on wet paint.

Coming back the next day, he saw a group of students crowded around his painting. From the doorway, he heard the professor of art commend his work, everything from the coloration to the vivid imagery of a cold, dead world outside while spring was waiting inside to burst forth in warmth and comfort. Satisfied, he waited for them to pass as he sat in the corner, added the finer details to his artwork, and finalized it. He began to cut and paint an elaborate frame in the framing room. Going so far as gilding it, he mounted his painting behind it and was pleased. He patted himself on the pack for another painting well done.

There was one last thing to do before he took photos of it to list on his online gallery for purchase. Walking over to his paint set, he chose a metallic silver. In the corner of the painting, he used his finest brush to delicately write his name in what appeared to be a liquid mirror. All the other information a collector needs is tagged and attached to the back of the canvas. Grinning, he snapped a few pictures, admiring how his signature stood out from the more muted tones around it. Posting it, he waited for feedback.

As always with every creative, he did not pause to rest. He needed to follow the subsequent flow of inspiration. If this piece sold half as quickly as his others, he could afford another week of room and board in his small apartment and a few supplies he was running low on.