Recently, I had the pleasure of meeting up with fellow plein air aficionado, Carrie Pill.

 

We spent a Sunday morning enjoying/suffering through all that plein air has to offer: the immediacy of all the subtle colors unseeable in a photograph; the entertainment of tunes by a cover band, wafting over from a nearby street festival; the frustrations of weather that seems to delight in raining not long after you start painting, all the way until you almost finish; the discomfort of stifling heat when the rain ended but the humidity did not; the joy of hearing someone nearby spontaneously bursting into a 1920s-style song; the camaraderie of doing the thing you love with someone else who loves it too.  

 

For some reason, flushed with the (over) confidence of I don’t know what, I decided I was going to paint a 9x12" of All The Boats. Had I ever painted that many complex and moving shapes all together before? No! But that was a minor detail! I was going to do it.

 

We alternated between bouts of silence and conversation, and I swear, every conversation must’ve started with me exclaiming, “This is really hard!” It was very hard. But I kept on, invigorated by the challenge and the accountability that Carrie provided.  

 

After about three hours, I ran out of steam. I think because I mentioned I would probably “finish this one at home” — which really means put it in a pile and never touch it again — we got talking about why it’s so difficult to complete a plein air piece.

 

I know that I am not good at finishing my plein air paintings. Often, unless I return home and complete them immediately, I lose interest. But when I return home after a day of painting, I’m often too tired to complete them immediately, and so the vicious cycle feeds itself. I’ve always wondered if it’s some sort of unhealthy character trait that I developed to protect myself from the fear of failure, or some such deep psychological reason.

 

But Carrie put into words so succinctly what I think my problem has been all along — “Of course it’s hard,” she said, “because it’s not fun. It’s not exciting like it is when you’re out here. Finishing a painting in the studio is work.”

 

YES. It is work. Hard, unglamorous, tedious work. Why slog through the final lap when I could frolic off to enjoy a new adventure?

 

 

Which brings me to the other thing we somehow got talking about: sports we played in school. I ran track in ninth grade, specializing in the 800- and 1600-meter races. While I enjoyed some things about it, such as spending time with my running mates and coach, it was a painfully physical endeavor that I eventually said “never again!” to.

 

The coach for the girl’s team was super cool in my ninth-grade eyes. She had pink hair and travelled all around the world competing in triathlons and Iron Men. I vividly remember running around the mostly empty dirt track after school during practice, trying to push myself in whatever grueling long-distance sprint she had us run. The last curve, heading into the final 200 meters, always seemed to stretch endlessly before me, and the urge to crumple over was compelling. But then, distantly, I would hear Coach shouting to me, “Come on, Jennifer! Bring it in!”

 

I recounted this memory to Carrie, and we were laughing about “finishing strong,” like good athletes. (Carrie really is an extreme sport athlete, as well as an artist. Ask her about Adventure Painting!)

 

I thought about my track memories and Carrie’s explanation of painting as work on the drive home, and I knew I had to finish this painting strong. Somehow realizing that it’s hard work, and not simply because I’m slothful or irresponsible, has helped me switch mindsets. It’s hard work, so get to work. Dig into that Protestant work ethic and get it done!

 

And so I did. Thank you, Carrie. I could feel proud of myself, even if the finished piece isn’t one of my favorites.

 

Now. About that pile in the corner…

 

 

As far as I got in three hours.