Blank Canvas

During art college, my roommate decided to splurge on her first painting class. She purchased good bristle brushes, quality acrylics and then primed a fairly large canvas. A beautiful, white surface gleamed on the easel. Jars of primary colours, tubes of magenta, yellow ochre, and burnt sienna were laid out beside a new palette. Brushes in both hands, she turned towards the invitation only a pristine canvas could offer– and stared. She stared some more. When the instructor came over, she was still holding the brushes like two wands posed before a silent symphony. He asked her why she hadn’t begun painting and she stammered, how petrified she suddenly felt, about the commitment of making a single gesture. My roommate eventually resolved her inhibition and became one of the better painters in the class. In retrospect, what happened was a variation of that tiny little death called "Blank Canvas Syndrome." Poets and novelists recognize this as writer’s block. For singers and performers, it manifests as stage fright.
Some of the most passionately creative and talented people can be stuck in Blank Canvas for decades. The majority of artists encounter it at all stages of their career. I also know a few, lucky prolific ones who have yet to experience this.

There are circumstances though, which I do not believe fall in the category of Blank Canvas. Recuperating from Norwalk virus or any illness is not symptomatic of Blank Canvas. Neither is mourning the death of loved ones including animals– although grief or loss have been known to motivate work, and work too, can be a catharsis. Problems of time management due to a job, family, or unexpected events do not constitute Blank Canvas, yet can aggravate an artist struggling to cope with it. Acts of God such as floods, earthquakes, storms are nobody’s fault. Everyone needs to recover from health ailments and disabilities. It is understandable to decline work while dealing with tragedy or crisis. Bouts of misfortune are better served as a reminder that bad things do happen; we certainly cannot always control or anticipate them.

In fact, Blank Canvas, often creeps in when an artist has all the resources, conditions and training conducive to productivity and still, cannot summon the muse. Usually an internal imposition of such exorbitant demands upon one’s capabilities, backfires into negative results. There is a difference between striving for excellence and setting up overwhelming standards designed to fail, whether consciously or not. The Great Canadian Masterpiece, The Definitive Work of Art are titles in the lexicon of an artist stymied by Blank Canvas. Underlying the obstruction is a fear of failure and a subsequent judgement that deems failure unacceptable. Anxieties about sustained effort, critical disapproval or indifference undermines or challenges anyone in the professional arts. When artists mentally vilify, dismiss or otherwise condemn their own efforts before rough drafts have even started, Blank Canvas has opportunities to thrive instead of a portfolio.

"Failure is not an option" may work for astronauts compromised on space missions, but artists help themselves by coming down to earth in times when expectations exceed reality. I once purchase an entire roll of canvas to last, I thought, my whole career. Every time a new piece was cut, I thoroughly anticipated a satisfactory painting. I also refused to begin another one until the previous attempt felt complete. What happened instead? The paintings became so overworked, they were eventually ruined. For every success, I had 6-7 blunders. Today, I still keep some of these rolled up canvasses around. The carnage, compared to the improvements of my present work, actually rejuvenates my spirits. They recall the first method I discovered for dealing with Blank Canvas.

Back then, my issues revolved around ugly paintings and the cost of materials squandered to make them. Even mixed, left-over paint provoked concerns about wastefulness. Often, work in progress was spoiled simply because I refused to quit until the excess paint was used up, regardless of whether or not it benefitted the work. To drain off the pressure, I decided to deliberately do a bad painting. Two canvasses were mounted beside each other. The first was the "real" work and the second I called my "frustration canvas." On this canvas, I hurled, slapped, pounded, and smeared without any consideration for content, structure, or colour harmony. I even took a mat knife and slashed areas so there was no mistaking the 4x6 ft. wreck, blatantly visible in my studio. The same canvas stayed up through several paintings, and, although it was obviously irredeemable, sometimes contained an energy and vitality I could transfer over to finished work. It was also where the excess paint went.

These days, Blank Canvas arrives much less frequently and stays only short visits. I’ve replaced "frustration canvasses" with other solutions and an experiential philosophy that acknowledges– how nicely– dismal paintings convert into shower curtains, border trims, and placemats. As a mixed blessing, Blank Canvas can force a re-evaluation of artistic direction. Has a phase naturally worn itself out? Is this a challenge to push through to the next level or is this really a problem with attitude, limited thinking, or discouragement? Interrupting a routine by going back out into the world, relating to other people or the environment, often recharges an excitement to work again and reconnect with sources of inspiration and humanity.

Finally, if matter is never lost, only changed– the same applies to creative energy as well. When I don’t feel like doing art, I’ve realized that it’s because the desire is not lost so much as the energy wants to express itself in another discipline like poetry, gardening or improvisational movement. As long as there are artists, many, many ways exist to be one.