The Physical Side of Making Art

I write my best posts during the wee hours when I’m supposed to be sleeping. You have to trust me on this since you’re never gonna see them.

Because I don’t write them down.

I write them in my head, sure that I’ll remember each clever turn of phrase because how could I possibly forget something so outrageously PERFECT.

Sometimes it’s not blog posts, it’s paintings. Outrageous composition, the perfect palette and then–

And then I drift off, losing those posts and paintings to dreamland.

Well, a few days ago it was no different. I lay awake on purpose knowing that the puppy would wake me up to go potty just as soon as I drifted off. And waking up from a sound sleep only to leave my warm bed for a cold rainy night seemed more doable if I wasn’t asleep in the first place.

If I was braced for it.

So I stayed awake studying my old friends, the shadows on the ceiling. I’ve written about night shadows before. But this time I was thinking about how cool it will be when I’m in the new studio and I can paint BIG again. Maybe humongous. Ginormous even.

What an absolute JOY that will be.

I lay there remembering the sheer physicality of painting the way I used to paint. The way I’m going to paint again when I’m in the new studio. Standing. Bending. Twisting. Dancing. Schlepping large canvases and panels. Lifting them up. Hauling them around.

Working on the wall. On the floor. On my feet at the table. MOVING.

And then the reality of the last two years without a studio hit home. Nearly two years of spending more time on my ass than on my feet. Working on a small scale when working at all. Getting tight. And cranky. And stiff.

Feeling old.

So there I was lying in bed staring at the Rothkoesque shadows on the ceiling, thinking about all those BIG paintings I’ll be making once I have a studio again when the words of a long ago art professor crept into my head.

It’s the only thing I remember about that class: the teacher pacing back and forth in front of a window as he adamantly declared that an artist needs to be an athlete.

Because art is physical work.

The next morning I couldn’t remember the blogpost. Or the color transitions in the Rothkoesque painting.

But I noticed the the stiffness in my hips, the twinge in my knee. The feeling of starting the day already creaky.

And I recalled the professor’s words.

Art is physical work.

Which means if I’m going to reclaim my painting practice, I need to start by reclaiming my body.

This Week’s Creative Prompt

Notice how your body moves when you’re making something.

The way you lean in. The way you reach. How you shift your weight without thinking about it.

Or—if you haven’t been making much lately—notice that too.

The stiffness. The resistance. The places that don’t want to move.

Just notice.

‘Til next week–