BRUSHED BY TUSCANY: AN ARTIST’S DIARY

The Beauty of the Unfinished

Remembering Rembrandt with Meditative Painting

“It looks finished to me!” He’s got such concern in his eyes…

“It’s finished when the artist says it’s finished.”

26 January, 2024, 9:00am — My study in Tuscany, Italy

My eyes are fixed on the canvas now, my left hand mixing colors on the wood block while my right blots the trickle of paint escaping my Venetian sky. Behind me, the dull grey sky casts a pallid ray of white, only making the colors on my canvas stand out that much more.

One of the things I promised myself this year was to not only start paintings but finish them, too. This means starting no more than three paintings at a time, and using my mornings from home to paint them.

Here I am now, painting an impression of San Giorgio Maggiore’s tarnished angel. I’m recalling the time my partner and I shared a magical journey under the full moon in Venice.

In an ocean of details I am lost now, allowing myself to enter a zen state that carries me through the session onto the shore of a brand new day.

As I scumble mixed cerulean, white, and violet into my sky, the sound of the dry brush following the wet is like a medley.

It already looks magical.

Scuff, scuff, scuff, my magic yellow-pink-blue sky is coming alive.

In the distance the frustrated horns of those late to work blare.

I yawn and stretch. Time to get another coffee.

Let her stay unfinished a little longer.

On the easel then: my unfinished self-portrait. The hand and clothes are still unfinished, as is my dotted sky.

My partner has a painting of us hanging over his workspace. I made that as an homage to our relationship. This one I’ve made after a long while of painting only miniatures.

While the painting appears finished to the naked eye, it’s not. But he admires it every day as though it is. He peers over me to look at what I’m working on.

“It already looks magical.”

I smile. I see all the little flaws, but my greatest cheerleader doesn’t.

“Once I finish this one, maybe I get around to finishing that a little more,” I point to the painting over his desk. He pauses a beat.

“What do you mean? It looks finished to me!” He’s got such concern in his eyes I’m a little sorry I ever mentioned it.

“It’s finished when the artist says it’s finished,” I’m quoting Rembrandt as I give him a little hug and a kiss and walk out of the room.

Behind me, he’s lifting the painting off its hook now, inspecting it.

That’s when he notices it’s not signed yet.

I’ve never enjoyed the creative process in the past. It’s always been the destination for me, never the journey. You have artists everywhere saying how important the journey is. That creativity is in the how, not necessarily the what. That doing is greater than being.

To hell with that.

All the art process ever was for me was anxiety. Executive dysfunction would pin me into my chair, blowing imposter syndrome into my face.

That was until I found Rembrandt.

Walking through Rembrandt’s room in the Uffizi. His tronie, possibly a self-portrait as a young man, sits pretty in a gallery wall of portraits. Seemingly unfinished. But there’s this charming quality about his unfinished works that never cease to amaze me.

So when I made the painting of my partner and I, a surrealistic piece, I meant for it to stay unfinished. For me to layer over it in the possible future, adding more richness and depth from our relationship into it as the years turn.

And so, unlike the years before this when I despised the process, this year, I am enjoying watching my canvas turn beautiful.

I’m taking it slow, and letting it unfold as it will. Enjoying the look of an unfinished piece as I spend a morning in meditative painting.

All it takes is some soft music, or a metronome in your head. Then you sit down and tint your canvas. Bright pink if you want a stark gray-blue sky, but a good burnt sienna works wonders if you only want an even blue morning.

Nothing has changed my life quite for the better like waking up, doing a morning ritual, and then sitting to paint. We spend so much of our times on consuming low and high art over screens that it can break our creative brains down. Once you’ve spent too long observing, doing becoming nearly impossible.

This is why mindful painting helps. It allows you to observe your process, observe yourself creating art. Learning from your mistakes and where you could’ve reduced the number of brush-strokes for a more painterly finish.

I smile. I see all the little flaws, but my greatest cheerleader doesn’t.

And what’s more, it’s working with your hands. Hands are magical things. It is by the touch of His hand that God seemingly birthed Adam in Michelangelo's fresco. It is in the hands of the Jewish Bride by Rembrandt that you see her feelings of anxiety on her wedding, and in the hands the protectiveness of his father, dutifully leading his daughter towards her new life.

Hands are what AI can nearly never get right. Because it simply cannot understand the beauty and wonder of doing things with them.

For it’s not the physical hand itself that is the bearer of magic, but the idea of creation. We as people live our best lives when we create.

And to create well, one needs to fall in love with the practice of creation.

What better way to do that than to appreciate the here and now of the journey, rather than waiting until it’s finished?

On the easel — the work in progress in question. If you stick around we’ll finish it together in the coming weeks!

I’ll catch you next week Wednesday for the next installment from Tuscany!

Check out last week’s topic here:

You Don’t Need to Get It Right the First Time

Learning “alla prima”, a technique and a modus vivendi

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Did I manage to bring you joy? You can buy me a cafè doppio here: https://ko-fi.com/sangewya

If you’re interested in the day-to-day workings of an artist in Tuscany, check out my Instagram here: https://www.instagram.com/iamsangeetakalsi/