The Blank Canvas
“The Blank Canvas” keeps a place of honor in the studio.
The intimidation of the blank page is real. Empty paper. Stretched and primed smooth canvas. Clean, perfect, and crisp- it vibrates with unseen energy. It could be 100% cotton 300 lb handmade watercolor paper from some obscure historic mill in the English countryside, or it could be that HUGE new Ampersand cradled wood panel that you special ordered, lurking in the corner of the studio. Maybe it’s some lovely linen that seems too etherial to be true. Or it could be from a tablet you picked up on clearance at a sale somewhere. How much this expanse of perfect nothingness cost isn’t the issue. It’s the fear.
The blank page forces us to face our potential and challenges us to dive-in headfirst. And art (along with writing) is proof of our efforts. But what if those efforts aren’t good enough? What if all we leave behind is a messy scar of footsteps tearing through the pristine snow on the meadow? It’s a fear of facing yourself through the brush, or pen, and having the results sit like judge and jury. Are you any good? Does what you say visually have any meaning in the world? Is it even worth your time? Does anyone care about your scribbles? What is your purpose on this planet? What is the point of anything? (OK, it starts to get out of hand when you spend too much time in your head, but you get the picture.)
My solution is to keep a safe space for those feelings. Let them have a voice. Suppressing your feelings will cause a nasty rebellion at some point. All those scary bits will come back with a vengeance and stage a not-so-bloodless coup for your soul. Poor little fear really has your best interest at heart, it is a lizard-brain level survival skill. I keep fear, specifically “fear of the blank page” in its place by giving it what it wants- its very own blank canvas.
No ordinary canvas, this is the finest grade portrait linen hand-primed and stretched using old-school tacks. It came from Magasin Sennelier, the multi-level art candy store right across the Seine from the Louvre in Paris. Monsieur Sennelier himself sold it to me and the price tag listed in Euros is still on the back. I carried this precious artifact all the way across France and back home with the intention of never painting on it.
Why? Because this was the perfect blank canvas. A work of art in itself. Fear can curl up on it, savor it, caress it, obsess over it, and keep it safe. It is not allowed to do that with any other canvas/paper/board/etc in the studio. Just this one canvas. Go ahead fear, have at it. Drool on it like a dog with a brand new soup bone. It keeps itself busy and lets me get to work on the other pages. Sometimes I do falter and feel the intimidation of blank pages, but all I have to do is look up at “The Blank Canvas” sitting prominently in the studio and remind myself of why it’s there. I am free to ruin everything else without apology. And in the end, nothing is ruined, not really. Even pieces that I think “fail’ end up teaching me something that I can bring into the next attempt. That’s something that fear wouldn’t allow if it wasn’t kept in check.
Fear can be good, sometimes. Fear keeps you from putting yourself in life-threatening situations. But fear shouldn’t drive. It shouldn’t lead your life. Give it something to do, keep it busy, and get on with things.