What The Artistic Process Looks Like - For Me, Anyway

Hair in a messy bun that has somehow fallen to the right side of my head. Yesterday’s makeup that I failed to wipe off. It’s a wonder that I quickly showered and brushed my teeth. My black paint clothes carelessly tied and buttoned onto my body. I am ready.

The sun was coming up that morning, which was casting an annoying shadow on my canvas and easel no matter where I moved it in my room, thanks to my singular window, so I had to wait to throw color on the canvas and have it remain actually true to my color vision. I had to wait, which will forever be annoying. Waiting could be productive, and should have involved organizing supplies, getting ready for the day, but those that know me well know that this didn’t happen. My workspace is extremely chaotic and I don’t think it will ever be organized. It is enough to give my clean-freak mother a heart attack.

Instead, I sat up on my uncomfortable chair, adjusted the pillow backing, and sifted through Lord of the Rings movies appendices that I have on the television that is facing me and my easel. I am glued to these videos, hours and hours of footage of interviews, behind the scenes videos, the “making of” miniatures and videography techniques, and costume design. I enjoy watching these just as much as I enjoy watching the actual Peter Jackson Lord of the Rings films, but of course it would just be background noise anyway.

There. I found a good video in the appendices talking about voice instructors teaching Orlando Bloom, Legolas, how to speak in elvish. Pretty rad. The sun had also moved slightly, which had made all the difference.

I realize that I haven’t eaten breakfast and have only taken my medications. Big whoop. This was priority, because I felt that surge of creativity that only pops up in this extreme level every so often. I have enough awareness to know that I have to take advantage of it.

The river oil painting that I was working on was in its “ugly stage”, and I kicked yesterday’s sock feet up onto the bottom part of my easel for balance. I had to have faith that it would turn out well, remind myself of other experiences in which I had very little faith in a project and it ended up being beautiful and maybe even a new favorite. I grabbed a crappy brush from my desk (that was truly on its way out) and began to gently add in small bushes alongside the river.

I would be here, seated in this chair until my back actually gave out and the sun outside began to go down, watching hours of Tolkien videos. I would be starved and without having drank water or gone to the bathroom all day. I would be staring at this canvas, endlessly familiar with every stroke, the thickness of each piece, color, and edge. It would become second nature to be with this piece, to know this piece, and with every hope in my bones I would pick it up again the next day and continue with the same momentum.

My painting experience, though completely unglamorous, is sacred and spiritual to me. The easel is where I am the most “Rachel” of any other place on the planet, and knowing that I am bringing something to life is powerful.