It sounds odd, but there is a real truth to finding comfort in the uncomfortable.

The process of painting starts with an unknown. You are going to bring to life something that didn’t exist before. There are no real risks in the beginning. Stretching the canvas. Gessoing. Fundamentals basically. No big chances taken. And even starting with the first strokes, you know you can always paint over. But then there is effort and time. And a decision to continue. You’re really in this now. And you feel a twinge of magic amid the fear. Will it show up again? Will you show up again? Will you do the work? And it seems long when you’re in it, but everything is really just a moment, isn’t it? For me, I like that moment. Some may call it discomfort, and I don’t know another word for it. But I don’t want it to sound negative. Because I seek it out, again and again. It’s what I miss after each completion, I suppose. But It’s why I return to the canvas again. I love that feeling of getting through. Shrugging off doubt. Not knowing, but just believing in the process. The mix of magic and work — a heart’s potion that makes no promises, and would it be magic if it did? No. 

As the newest portrait hangs on the wall, there is joy in the praise. The compliments. But I can feel it. The warning of stability. Faith’s tap on the shoulder that says it’s time. Time to chance it all again. So I start with the panel. The canvas. And my heart wriggles. Let’s get uncomfortable.