Painter's Block

Imagine feeling stuck and struggling to overcome a fear. That is where I was during the winter break of ’13-’14. I was standing in my cold basement, more specifically my art studio, and formerly my mom’s stamping office.

The dust collects on the remains of my mom’s “Stamping-up” representative days, which led to her becoming a jewelry representative. After endless purchases of merchandise that never matched her income she finally settled for a part time job. Maybe it took a few part time jobs to really get settled, but nonetheless, she kept her hobby of stamping and splurging on jewelry in her spare time.

I scanned the room, looking upon the piles of boxes and closets of jewelry and stamps that fill half the room, creating a division between what originally was my mom’s and my dad’s workshop spaces.

I check the fuzzy socks on my feet for any nails or shards of wire I may have missed from tiptoeing across the floor of my dad’s workbench containing his many computer or electronic projects he’s always fiddling with. Once I know my feet are not in any danger I then find my canvases piled in the organized mess that I call my workspace. Once my mom admitted my ownership of her space, I built upon it as any conqueror would. Except for the one flaw I share with my mom; we hoard things we have great visions for, but never have time to execute them. Therefore, on top of the mounds of used and unused stamps, and jewelry boxes are piles of canvases and paint still in their wrappers or boxes.

All of these materials, collecting dust, begging to be used. They have a profound amount of potential. As I run my hand across the plastic casing my canvases, their need to shed the wrapping was so loud I could feel the vibrations of inspiration influencing me.

As soon as I tore off the plastic of the first canvas, my inspired momentum was struck with hesitation. I am reintroduced to my fear of blank canvases. Such as writers block, I became intimidated and overwhelmed by the great potential the canvas deserves, and I may not be able to deliver.

The white, blank, stale surface shrinks my inspiration to microscopic proportions. It is a color I feel intimidated by repeatedly, but a new sense hit me. The comforting smell of the fresh wooden canvas frame allowed my momentum to become too great to break completely.

I turned to the first color I could work with. Which in turn lead me to my next concentration. It was omniscient, abyssal, and spacious. I could then see, envision, and develop my ideas onto my canvas. My hands worked tirelessly and eagerly upon my black toned canvas.

My space concentration was then born, my white canvas fear obliterated, and my hoarding has happily and sufficiently decreased from then on.