There’s a specific kind of frustration every artist knows—the moment a piece slips out of your control.
I was about four hours into the third piece of my From the Wood charcoal series. Up until that point, I had a clear vision for where the drawing was going. But somewhere along the line, the focus dissolved. The composition felt lost, the marks felt wrong, and a heavy sense of defeat set in. I stepped back, looked at the easel, and felt that sink-in-your-chest disappointment: I’d just wasted four hours, a fine sheet of paper, and a whole lot of charcoal.
It was a total loss. No redemption in sight.
So, I did the only sensible thing I could think of in this existential crisis: I walked away from the art and ate a whole quart of ice cream.
When I finally wandered back and sat in front of the unfinished piece I looked at it and gave it a long, forlorn sigh. The drawing was still doomed to the recycling bin. But because I already believed the piece was ruined, the pressure completely vanished. There was nothing left to save, which meant there was nothing left to lose.
I picked up a raw stick of charcoal. Without planning, overthinking, or trying to fix anything, I just let go and made a few fast, aggressive swipes across the paper.
Shazam!
In three seconds, the energy of the whole canvas shifted. Those unfiltered, spontaneous marks cut right through the stiff layout and gave the piece the exact spark it had been missing. The drawing transformed instantly, and just like that, I was back into it.
Sometimes the original plan has to break so the actual art can happen. And sometimes, you just need a quart of ice cream and the freedom to ruin a page to find your way back.
There’s a specific kind of frustration every artist knows—the moment a piece slips out of your control.
I was about four hours into the third piece of my From the Wood charcoal series. Up until that point, I had a clear vision for where the drawing was going. But somewhere along the line, the focus dissolved. The composition felt lost, the marks felt wrong, and a heavy sense of defeat set in. I stepped back, looked at the easel, and felt that sink-in-your-chest disappointment: I’d just wasted four hours, a fine sheet of paper, and a whole lot of charcoal.
It was a total loss. No redemption in sight.
So, I did the only sensible thing I could think of in this existential crisis: I walked away from the art and ate a whole quart of ice cream.
When I finally wandered back and sat in front of the unfinished piece I looked at it and gave it a long, forlorn sigh. The drawing was still doomed to the recycling bin. But because I already believed the piece was ruined, the pressure completely vanished. There was nothing left to save, which meant there was nothing left to lose.
I picked up a raw stick of charcoal. Without planning, overthinking, or trying to fix anything, I just let go and made a few fast, aggressive swipes across the paper.
Shazam!
In three seconds, the energy of the whole canvas shifted. Those unfiltered, spontaneous marks cut right through the stiff layout and gave the piece the exact spark it had been missing. The drawing transformed instantly, and just like that, I was back into it.
Sometimes the original plan has to break so the actual art can happen. And sometimes, you just need a quart of ice cream and the freedom to ruin a page to find your way back.
