It’s the question that never quite goes away. Whether I’m working alone in my studio or painting outside with friends, there’s always that little voice asking: Is it done yet? I don't want to overwork but I want to tell enough of the story.

When I’m out plein air painting with friends, I’m guilty of looking at my friends' work and jumping in with, “Don’t touch it! That sky is perfect!” And sometimes they LOVE that, but the truth is, I don’t know what they’re aiming for. I don’t know the vision behind the marks they’re making. And while those comments often help me realize I’m about to overwork something, most of the time, I need to remind myself: let the artist do their thing.

 

Because finishing a painting isn’t about pleasing someone else’s eye—it’s about knowing when you’ve said what you came to say.

I recently painted a group of lemons in a modern cloisonnist style, using bold outlines that almost fracture the image. And yet, that fragmentation is the point. The lines create a kind of brokenness—and within that, a wholeness.

While I was still in the process, people walked into my studio and told me the painting was beautiful before I ever added the lines. That’s always tempting—to stop when others are pleased. But I hadn’t said what I wanted to say yet. For me, the outlines weren’t just an aesthetic choice. They were part of the meaning. These lemons aren’t just about color or shape; they’re about how our lives can feel disjointed, even while something beautiful is forming. Wholeness doesn’t have to mean smooth or polished. Sometimes, it’s held together by contrast, texture, tension. Sometimes the beauty is buried beneath all the complications.

So how do I know when a painting is finished? 
I don't know. I just know.
Maybe it is when I believe it holds a presence: flawed, layered, and full.

 

And truly, as long as I’m holding a brush, no painting ever feels completely safe from being changed. That’s the danger of keeping work around for too long—I’ll almost always want to “fix” it with fresh eyes.

But I really push myself to leave it alone. I have to respect the version of me who painted it then.

Creating art is vulnerable. Especially when I look at something I made a year ago and know that time, growth, and experience would push me to make different choices today. That’s part of it, though—each painting captures a moment, not just in the subject, but in me.

-Amanda