Unfinished Paintings

In my studio, there is a special place—a folder where I keep unfinished works.

This folder bothers me. It feels like a buildup of energy that could have manifested differently in the physical world. If I close my eyes, in a workspace where everything is in constant motion, this one spot feels stagnant, like a storage room. That’s why I feel a little victory every time I manage to finish one of the works from that folder.

Where do unfinished works come from?

Normally, I work through a theme from beginning to end, never abandoning a painting if I’ve planned it out and made the decision to start.

But from time to time, I have public demonstrations, where I begin a piece to show my working process. Often, I don’t finish these because there isn’t enough time, concentration, or because I’m focused on working with students.

These "swallows"—as I call them—end up stuck in the folder. They often contain something valuable, because the dynamics of studio painting and public painting are so different. But it’s difficult to re-enter the same mood after a work has been sitting for a while. And so, they accumulate.

Now feels like the perfect time to finish some of them. These gray olive trees got lucky.

Yesterday, I finished listening to Somerset Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence and suddenly wanted to find every movie about Gauguin, to immerse myself in his passion and colorful Tahiti.

Perhaps in the gray mist of the metropolis, the lack of vitamin D is taking its toll, making me crave bright colors, sunshine, and vivid dreams.

Art historians still debate this book—how much of Strickland’s story is truly based on Gauguin’s life? So much resonates with Gauguin’s real story, but how much of it did Maugham invent?

"There are only two things in the world that justify human existence—love and art."

—Somerset Maugham