I WANTED TO PAINT OVER THE CANVAS AND START FROM THE BEGINNING BUT I DIDN'T...

I remember one special birthday. My thirtieth. A huge easel with a pink ribbon, two tubes of oil paint—transparent red oxide and sap green—and my childlike excitement. The paints shimmered, creamy and seductive, as if they held an entire world within: the warmth of the earth in the red tones and the depth of a silent, mysterious forest in the green. It was a gift that arrived with such precision and meaning, a perfect synchronicity, that I experienced it as a message from the universe itself: “It’s time!”

A few years before that birthday, I had been painting intensively, but I didn’t have an easel or proper painting supplies. At that time, I was still painting as an amateur. But what does "amateur" even mean? To paint only when you want to, when you're inspired, occasionally, without thinking about the cost of materials or the quality, the process, the time—when there are no deadlines or rules, without constantly doubting your every move. Because, to be honest, painting does have certain rules, which, of course, can and should be broken—but only once they are learned.

But when you decide to dive deeper into the world of art, a more serious relationship with creation begins. In the art program I attended later on, there were endless discussions about the “process.” About the importance of pushing through to the end whatever you begin. Some feared the very beginning—the white canvas, the silence, the responsibility of the first stroke. Others didn’t know how to finish a painting. When is it done? How do you know when it's enough? Maybe it never is... How do you recognize the end when the painting could always be better, more beautiful and more authentic?

That’s why our professor had one simple rule used to start the painting: “Kill the white!” Start however you can—start with play, with fluid, light, carefree strokes using the largest brushes. The first stroke is liberation through layering color. And it’s true. The beginning is exciting. Everything can be corrected, covered up, painted over. And of course, she was right—the beginning doesn’t discriminate, the beginning is thrilling, the first strokes are easy to erase and paint over. But then comes the middle part of the process… Ah, that messy, judgmental, infamous middle. For me, that’s exactly where the biggest challenge lies. When I start to lose the vision, the sketch, the idea, and my patience—right in the middle of the creative process. Everything is wonderful and exciting while it’s still unfolding, while the colors are spilling, while everything is free and there’s no room for mistakes because anything can later be covered and painted over—but what happens when that phase ends?

Specifically, while working on my latest painting (the one following this post), I struggled for hours with the portrait of a woman’s face. In this process, you discover something amazing—art is math. It sounds counterintuitive, but it’s true. You especially realize this when painting portraits—every millimeter matters. One millimeter more or less and you’ve got a different person in front of you. Over the years, I began looking at human faces differently. I started noticing the triangle of light falling on a subject—the famous Rembrandt triangle—seeking warm and cool values, the way shadows fall across the face, gentle curves, the twist of hair, all the regular and irregular surfaces. Like with all subjects, painting changes the painter. It gives you a new set of lenses through which to view the world in a new, interesting, refreshing, and vivid way. Everything before that seems dead and bleak.

This middle phase feels like this: it seems you can't go back, but also can’t move forward. You erase, start over—it’s not right. Try again—not this way either. Then I look at reference models from other paintings, searching for someone else’s solution. How did they manage it? Try again—it’s not working. I step away from the canvas—something’s off. I leave the studio, and half an hour later when I glance at the canvas again, I’m shocked at how blind I had been to the angles and proportions. Every time I’m surprised at how much our eyes deceive us—how much our need to simplify leads us to mistakes. The conclusions like “the nose starts here, the eyes go there, the mouth over here” absolutely lead to errors. The truth is, our brain loves to simplify, to skip steps, to misinterpret.

That’s why art is math—true resemblance lies in accurate proportions. Of course, if you care about that. And if you do care, you must arm yourself with patience. That’s something I didn’t know a few years ago. Now I know—the middle phase is just a phase. If you don’t give up, persistence pays off. At some point, an internal alarm goes off—this part doesn’t work—and that can be fixed.

And finally, those last strokes demand good timing to lay the brush down, because the painting can—and often does—become overworked. When we care about something, especially about the opinions of others, that’s when we begin to listen to the voice that tells us to adjust and conform to what's “acceptable” or what other successful artists have done. The art is in knowing how to endure—and when to stop—because at some point, everything falls into place, everything rounds out. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later, like everything in life.

The only fatal mistake is giving up.

“Art is never finished—only abandoned”, said the great Da Vinci.

Abandonment seems like the greatest sin an artist can commit. It’s not a betrayal of the painting—it’s a betrayal of oneself. And maybe we owe no explanation to anyone except to that God who lives within us, the one who created us with the desire to create.

But let me end with a simpler question—if it is simpler—so, dear readers and creators - Which part of your process is the hardest, when did you feel like giving up and more importantly what made you keep going?

P.S. And yes, I’m even more proud of the painting below, because even though the beginning of the creative process was fun, I pushed through the less easy and less enjoyable part—and I’m happy with the result. That makes it even more valuable. What do you think? If you see something in it that resonates with you, the painting is on display and available for purchase.