Some people treat their paint brushes like porcelain. They have deep-seated fears that, as the fine hairs of their brushes slowly wear down, their strokes become less inspired. This is true, yet I myself learned the hard way that you can make due with what you have for a very long time. If the talent is in you, you could paint pigment on rock and people would like it.
I leave my brushes at my easel in a jar of clean water. This is the water I will use next time I feel inspired. The water erodes the brush hairs, but long ago I decided it was more important the tools were always present—in as close a set-up as can be to what I’ll need when I’m ready to go for it. Otherwise the moment is lost, and you will never be a painter.
The water in my jar makes my brushes fray, slowly eroding them. In desperate times, however, I’ve painted personal masterpieces with such wimpy brushes you’d be astonished. Also, being aware my brushes are slowly being eaten by the water has at times acted like a timer on me, egging me on to once again … paint!
I leave a blank canvas on my easel and I am set to go whenever the mood calls.
My easel is a chair. You can use whatever easel you wish. I use chairs because my studio is full of them. People are shocked all of the chairs are covered from years of paint. The chairs were garbage though, long ago, and so they are not a waste, but a beautiful makeover.
I also enjoy the shock value.
I did have a nice easel once, but I lost it in the infamous Black Lab fiasco (see bio).
Where do you paint? You should have an answer by now. If you don’t, all of your stuff’s in a corner, box, closet—or under your bed. In that case, skip to Perspectives On Completion before reading further.
How often you paint also depends on how well you paint.
This is exemplified by the great inspiration a successful painting manifests in the artist. The artist wants to get right back at it, and do’er again. The problem with this is the Xerox effect. Eventually your pieces will suffer if you plough on. The best bet is to rest, or change forms (see Unconditional Art: Renaissance of Consciousness).
So always have the tools at hand, but after you’ve drained your imagination, force yourself to get away from it. Spend some time setting up the station for next time, but do no more creating.
Along with a chair, canvas, jar of water and brushes of several sizes, I also always have fresh tubes of paint ready to squeeze. I am purposefully wasteful of my paint, treating it as if it were water. For instance, I always over-squeeze my paint. This way I know my paintings will never suffer from lack of colour (which can happen during times of paint conservation), but also, I know the paint isn’t going to waste (as my chairs themselves become works of art).
Your tools use you.
Your job is not to go finding every tool once you’ve been inspired. By then your tools will have bored of you. By then you’ll lose focus and either not paint at all, or paint poorly like a deflated bag of blandness. Don’t let this happen. Refuse to identify yourself as a painter unless you know, at home right now, your station is just the way you’d have it if you only had a nano-second’s blank page epiphany left to seize.
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