On Process

For the past decade or so, at least eighty percent of my daily life has consisted of painting or sculpting or writing various things, and teaching the doing of those things to others. Given my circumstances, process has become a central theme.

Process is the place one settles oneself. Process is intimate and private, like a bedtime routine; some folks are more comfortable sharing intimacies than others, but an artist's process is always personal.

(This engenders the strange artistic voyeurism that spawns countless articles about other people's processes. "Inside the Artist's Studio- What Really Goes On!" and "Ten Surprising Habits of Your Favorite Authors!" We read these things like others read about celebrity sex lives. We simply must know. I've been unnaturally obsessed with Neal Stephenson's treadmill writing arrangement for years.)

Process is the only place where any piece moves forward. The future-- the finished painting, the show, the completed story-- doesn't really have much to do with the actual work. The work only happens in the present. Anyone who's ever had a glorious vision that just wouldn't materialize knows this; so does anyone who's ever been monkeying around with no particular aim and somehow made something fabulous.

I've been interested in figure painting lately. Aside from a couple of paintings I made in college, I haven't really pursued much realistic figurative work. So, I started with process.

Multiple discreet stages allow me to feel my way through the work: multiple roughs, multiple initial sketches, and then a fully rendered drawing. I spent a full week on those before I considered even touching the underpainting.

 To the left is the final sketch, made before starting the painting. As you can see, it still has some issues. Each iteration gave me a chance to fix the problems I just couldn't live with, and to think about what I was actually doing.

Above is the underpainting, just as I'm starting to build up color. To the right is the underpainting at an earlier monochromatic stage.

(I'll post final pics eventually. He isn't done yet.)





My husband Phil is a writer, and he's also grappling with process as he revises a novel. Here's a quote from his recent blog post:

This revision is also getting in the way of some other projects I’d like to tackle. I have at least three really interesting writing prospects rolling around in my brain right now, and I really want to start one soon. But the unfinished novel leaves me feeling guilty. How can I move on to something new, when this one isn’t even done? 

Process is a struggle. It's the place you simultaneously practice to get better and practice to execute; it's where the multifaceted meaning of the word practice ("practice a craft"..."medical practice"..."the practice of patience") is most apparent.

Process is...well, when you're doing it, it's everything.