So, you hear this term, "lonely painter," right? Sounds all deep and artistic. Folks imagine some genius locked away, churning out masterpieces. Well, let me tell ya, my little stint trying to be one was mostly just… well, lonely. And a whole lot of staring at a blank wall, or a blank screen, depending on what I was trying to "paint" that week.
My Grand Plan (That Went Sideways)
I figured, how hard can it be? I got myself some supplies. Or, you know, for my other projects, a new coding environment, the digital equivalent of a fresh canvas. I’d read a bit here, watch a video there. Thought I could just absorb it all and poof, art would happen. Or a perfectly functioning app. Whatever. It was supposed to be a solo flight of genius.
Turns out, genius needs coffee. And maybe a second pair of eyes.
- First, there was the "inspiration" phase. This mostly involved me pacing around, feeling very important and misunderstood.
- Then came the "getting started" phase. Which meant trying ten different approaches and liking none of them enough to stick.
- Followed swiftly by the "this is way harder than I thought, and maybe I'm not a genius" phase. That one lasted a good while, let me tell you.
It was a real jumble. Like trying to cook a gourmet meal with ingredients from three different recipes that don't belong together. You end up with something, sure, but it's probably not edible, and it's definitely not what was pictured on the box. My "canvases," digital or otherwise, often felt like that – a mess of half-baked ideas and techniques that just wouldn’t click.
The Great Canvas Catastrophe of '22
I remember this one specific attempt. I decided I was going to actually paint. With real paint. I went to the store, got some cheap acrylics, a canvas that was probably meant for kids. I had this grand vision, you see. Something moody and profound. I locked myself in the spare room for a whole weekend. My family knew to just slide food under the door.
By Sunday evening, what I had produced looked less like a profound masterpiece and more like a bunch of garden gnomes had a paint-fueled riot on my canvas. It was objectively terrible. So bad it was almost funny, if I hadn't wasted a whole weekend and a perfectly good (albeit cheap) canvas. That was my big "lonely painter" moment of truth. Just me, a truly hideous painting, and the lingering smell of despair and budget acrylics.
I nearly threw the whole lot out, easel and all. I thought, "This is it. This is why some artists are miserable."
Why I'm Telling You This
So yeah, that's my little story. That's why when people get all misty-eyed about the "solitary creative journey," I just kind of chuckle to myself. I’ve been there. I’ve tried to wrestle inspiration out of thin air in a quiet room. More often than not, it felt like wrestling an angry badger. You just end up scratched and confused.
The "practice" of being a lonely painter for me was less about artistic revelation and more about learning that, for me at least, complete isolation isn't the magic ingredient. It’s not some divine spark that only hits you when you're alone. It’s more often just you, getting increasingly frustrated with your own limitations.
What I Actually Do Now
Don't get me wrong, I still work on my own stuff. I still spend hours tinkering, coding, writing, sometimes even dabbing paint. The urge to create, to make something from nothing, that's still there, strong as ever. But that whole "lonely" part? I’m not so hung up on it anymore.
I found out that sometimes, just talking about what I’m stuck on, even to my dog (who's a terrible critic, by the way), helps more than stewing in silence. Bouncing ideas off another human, even if they don't fully get the nitty-gritty, is way better than letting those ideas go stale in your own head. It’s like airing out a musty room.
So, the "painter" in me is still alive and kicking. But I've learned to open the studio door a bit more often. Turns out, the process doesn't have to be quite so lonely to still be mine. And honestly, it makes the successes sweeter and the failures a bit less catastrophic.
