Chekhov, Nabokov, and a field

Today is a day for Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, Vladimir Nabokov, and a field bathed in morning light. I’m listening and painting.

The painting is at a challenging stage—I need to add accents and unify the details, which currently appear too separate.

The format of the work is large, so I constantly have to step back to view the whole piece. When I get too close, I see only fragments, and it’s so easy to get caught up in unnecessary specifics, losing the tone and cohesion of the entire composition. I’ve already wiped away layers in the grass area several times with a cloth, softening the deep shadow layer and removing overly bright highlights where they don’t belong. I didn’t expect to be adjusting details so meticulously right up to the finish.

I often photograph the stages of my work to better understand where the painting is heading.

In sequential photos, the painting seems to sway like the ocean, shifting in places but remaining unchanged overall, leaving me puzzled. I feel as though I spend the entire day improving the painting, but it’s really just another wave—beautiful as it both approaches and recedes from the shore. The essence remains the same—it's an ocean of grass. This was evident a few days ago, and it hasn’t changed much since. Perhaps if you focus on the details, something shifts, but I’m more interested in the overall state of the painting than in the specifics.

This often happens with large formats and themes I’ve already explored before returning to them with a new perspective. It’s easier for me to paint something entirely new, to seek out fresh images and colors. The process moves faster, and the challenges are entirely different. This feels more dynamic and engaging to me.

But in the professional world, nothing comes easily. Being a professional means putting in the effort to achieve results. Each stage brings new growth and a deeper understanding of the creative process.

Classical prose grounds me. Its pure language and precision of thought provide balance.

I’m listening to the collection "Last Summer" composed of Chekhov’s stories and final letters, and "Laughter in the Dark" by Nabokov. Only halfway through Nabokov’s novel did I realize I’d read it before. Like in a haze, memories of the blind protagonist and his doubts began to resurface.

By evening, in complete silence, I began adding accents to the painting—the final turns of lines, the brightest highlights and deepest shadows, the last section with refined shapes. And yet, I didn’t finish it again.

It took me another three days to finish the piece. Finally, I saw how all the details of the composition came together—how the focal point of the painting emerged and how each element fell into place, uniting the grasses of such varied tones into a single cohesive field.

From the initial concept and sketch to the final touches, the painting took me a month to complete, with small breaks in between. During this time, I was also working on the complex pink hues of fireweed in another piece and brainstorming new themes for graphic works.

The takeaway from this whole story: if something isn’t going right, then it’s worth working on it some more.