When is a painting finished?

It was the poet Paul Valery who first suggested that ‘a work of art is never finished, only abandoned’ (though it’s not a direct quote).

Knowing when to stop is sometimes the hardest thing.

Do I need to add another area of colour?

Do I need to refine the composition?

Does that tree need one more branch?

Is the picture pleasingly minimal or annoyingly empty?

There are many pieces of paper in a pile in my studio which are testament to me not stopping in time. I add one more thing, then, with a sinking heart, know I’ve gone too far. Instead of completion I’ve created clutter.

Especially with ink, a mark, once added, cannot be removed.

What’s done cannot be undone. It can only be added to - which sometimes improves things, but also sometimes makes them worse.

Often as an artist I can find myself fearful of white space. I’m afraid it suggests I’ve not had enough of an idea - it’s empty because I had nothing of value to say.

How similar this is to a person who sees silence as a personal challenge - a blank space they must fill with evidence of their own brilliance. Who fills every quiet moment with chatter, adding constantly to what they’ve already said, creating noise but driving away communication or insight.

Continually adding more devalues what’s already there (unless you work to a ‘maximalist’, overwhelming aesthetic). There ends up being so much on the page, that none of it resonates and nothing sits in clear connection to what’s around it. It’s like music which becomes noise without gaps between the notes, or writingwheretherearenogapsbetweenwordsandsoitbecomesreallyhardtoreadandfranklywhyshouldanyonebother?

So I’m always asking, as I paint, whether anything more is needed.

If, as Beckett suggested, every word is an unnecessary stain on silence, then how much do I want to stain the beauty of a blank page with my inks?

Sometimes of course, I stop too soon.

This piece - ‘Born in Stone’ - is one I finished a few months ago. Or so I thought. It’s made of red ochre and other minerals, which I mixed into inks from ground pigments. Their surface is disrupted with alcohol inks which, repelling water, create mysterious fossil-like patterns.

Enough. Finished.

Then, after a month or two of looking at it, I felt it not to be pleasingly minimal, but just empty.

It felt ‘not enough’.

So I added a lot more - as this (I think final) version shows. I used a lot of burnt umber to break up the red. I added more marks and stains.

Is it finished?

Is it enough?

Is it too much?

There’s no answer of course - at least, no correct answer. There’s only my sense that ‘I think so’.

Perhaps my feeling is not that it’s finished, but it’s time to let it go and move on, to abandon it, to see who wants it and to turn my attention to another empty sheet of paper or piece of canvas, and see how little or how much I can add to it without making the final outcome less than what I started with.