Artist Block: The Hardest Part Is Getting Started

This year, my feature show at Columbia City Gallery takes place in July. As I get closer to it, I’ve been thinking about assumptions—especially what people imagine an artist’s life looks like.

consolidating…

Yes, I paint and make art year-round.
Yes, my social media feed probably looks like I’m painting all the time and that it comes easily.

And in some ways, it does.

There’s a rhythm to my smaller Seattle-themed watercolors that feels familiar now. I know how to enter those paintings. I know where to begin. Even then, there’s still time spent going through my own photos, working out compositions, sketching and erasing until things feel right—but eventually, paint hits paper.

Larger work is different.

colors and tiles of Lisbon on my mind

As I start thinking about this year’s feature show, I find myself stuck in that quiet, uncomfortable space before anything really begins. Canvases are prepped. Supplies are ready. Ideas exist—vaguely—but nothing has landed yet. And that’s the part people don’t usually see.

Artist block doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like sitting in the studio, doing nothing. Sometimes it looks like scrolling through thousands of photos, hoping one will unlock something. Sometimes it’s just waiting—trying not to force the wrong idea onto a surface.

thinking about wrought iron balconies…

But sometimes, it looks like this:

Four sheets of paper flipped over, using the backs of old works. No pressure. No expectations. Just making marks. Adding color without thinking too hard about whether it works. Carving small printing blocks and pressing patterns into the surface. Layer over layer.

the tiled roof tops of Granada, whitewashed walls, pink geraniums…

Marks. Colors. Patterns that feel like memories of places.

I’m not trying to make finished pieces. I’m letting myself play. Letting the layers build without a plan. Trusting that somewhere in the repetition—somewhere in the rhythm of carving and printing and brushing color—the direction will begin to reveal itself.

the perfect local Porto cafe

What I’m learning (again) is that getting paint on the canvas isn’t about confidence or certainty. It’s about movement. About showing up. About making something instead of waiting for the perfect idea.

Clarity doesn’t come before you begin.
It comes because you begin.

This is the part of the artist’s life that rarely makes it to social media.

And it’s where I am right now.