The blank canvas stares at me. Every. Single. Time. (And I stare back, pretending I’m fine.)
You’d think after decades of painting, this would get easier. But no. Every time I face that white surface, I freeze. It’s like a huge, silent wall.
The strange thing is, the painting is already in my head. I can see it clearly.
But the moment I see that clean, untouched canvas, everything stops.
My mind starts whispering, What if you ruin it? What if it’s not as good as you imagine?
And just like that, I’m stuck.
The Perfection Trap (And My Weird Relationship with Imperfection)
Here’s the truth: I get stuck because of perfection. (Yes, I know I’m constantly nagging you all about embracing imperfection, but let’s ignore that for a second.)
When I look at that white canvas, I see perfect potential.
It’s pure.
It’s untouched.
And as soon as I put my brush on it, that perfection is gone.
Every stroke I make takes it further away from what could have been and closer to what it is.
And while I know that imperfection is where the beauty is—where the real magic happens—my brain still shouts, Don’t mess this up!
This is especially funny because I love imperfection.
I really do.
The drips of paint, the accidental brushstrokes, unearthly color combinations.
This is the stuff that makes the painting one of my paintings.
But standing in front of a blank canvas, all I can think is: Don’t screw it up.
My Procrastination Masterclass
So, what do I do? I procrastinate. Like a pro. (Seriously, I’ve turned it into an art form.)
Instead of painting, I’ll clean my brushes. Then, I’ll organize my paints. Then I’ll make a cup of coffee. Then I’ll check Instagram.
Anything to delay that first brushstroke. Because once I start, I’m committed. No turning back.
Sometimes, I’ll even prepare another canvas to paint on later. (Because clearly, one canvas I’m afraid to paint on isn’t enough.)
The First Stroke (And Why I Always Overthink It)
But here’s the thing: once I finally make the first mark, it gets easier.
Every time.
That first stroke feels like jumping off a cliff (ok, ok, maybe off a ladder), but once it’s done, I can breathe again.
The canvas stops being an enemy and becomes something I can work with. Suddenly, I’m not as scared of ruining it anymore.
I start to enjoy it.
And that’s when the fun begins.
The imperfections that I was so afraid of? They become my favorite part. A line that goes off? That’s interesting. A color I didn’t plan? That adds character.
It’s in these moments where the painting becomes something real. Something human.
Why It Never Gets Easier
So why doesn’t it ever get easier? Why, after all these years, do I still freeze in front of a blank canvas?
Because every new painting is a new risk. No matter how many I’ve done, every blank canvas is a new chance to fail (or succeed).
What worked last time might not work this time. There’s no formula. No guarantees. And that’s scary. But it’s also exciting. (Mostly scary though.)
Embracing the Fear
So, I’ve learned to live with the fear (ain’t this getting a little dramatic?). Or at least, tolerate it.
I know that procrastination, fear, and second-guessing are just part of my process. It’s how my brain gets ready to dive in.
Without that fear, the painting wouldn’t feel as important. The blank canvas wouldn’t feel like such a challenge. And, weirdly, I wouldn’t be as invested in it.
And in the end, that’s what keeps me coming back.
The fear, the uncertainty, the possibility of failure—they make the final painting worth it.
Every time I get lost in the mess, every time something doesn’t go as planned—that’s where the magic happens.
That’s where the real beauty is.
So, the next time I’m face-to-face with a fresh, white canvas, maybe I’ll remember that. (well, I’ll actually just procrastinate again. We’ll see.)