Yesterday I sat down to write an email to someone I'd never contacted before. It was an important email, so I wanted to make sure it was the best it could be.
Two hours later I was still changing words, reading sentences back and questioning tiny details. At this point I realised I wasn't really improving the email anymore. I was simply changing it.
I’d moved from trying to construct the perfect email to simply moving words around.. That evening, in the studio, it struck me that I often look at my paintings in a similar way.
After weeks in the studio, I eventually put my brush down, take a few steps back, look at the painting and ask one simple question.
Is this finished?
It sounds like it should have a simple answer. Either it is or it isn't. Yet the longer I've painted, the more I've realised it's one of the hardest questions an artist can ask, because I always assumed it’s finished when I think it’s perfect.
That seems logical enough right? If I keep refining, eventually I'll arrive at a point where there is nothing left to improve. The only problem is that the more I paint, the less convinced I have become that such a point actually exists.
Because if perfection is the goal, then the next question should surely be:
What does perfection actually look like?
Our first instinct might be to answer with technical qualities. Perfect composition. Perfect colour. Perfect balance. Perfect execution.
But if a painting possessed all of those things, would it actually be perfect?
I'm not convinced it would.
Some of the paintings I admire most contain awkward passages, unexpected marks and imperfections that probably wouldn't have survived if the artist had continued refining them. Ironically, those imperfections are often the very things that make the work memorable.
Then another question appears.
Whose definition of perfection are we using?
Ten artists could stand in front of the same painting and give ten different answers. None of them would necessarily be wrong. They'd simply be judging the work through different experiences, different tastes and different priorities.
But then what happens if you ask the same question to the same ten artists in ten years’ time? Would they still have the same opinion?
When I look back at paintings I made ten years ago I immediately see things I'd now change. Colours I'd handle differently. Shapes I'd simplify. Areas I'd push further. For years I interpreted that as evidence that I'd made mistakes.
Now I think that's the wrong conclusion.
Those paintings weren't failures. They represented the very best decisions I was capable of making with the knowledge, confidence and experience I had at the time. The paintings haven't changed. My judgement has.
If I looked back over a decade of work and agreed with every decision I'd ever made, I'd probably have to question whether I'd grown at all.
Perhaps that's the uncomfortable truth about perfection. It isn't a destination waiting to be reached. It changes every time we do.
If that's true, then perfection can never really be caught. Every change in our judgement creates a new standard by which we judge the work that came before it. The finish line quietly moves further away.
That doesn't mean the earlier paintings weren't finished. It simply means the artist who finished them no longer exists.
Once I accepted that, I stopped thinking of finishing a painting as reaching a destination and started thinking of it as making a decision.
Now, whenever I stand in front of a painting, I can almost always see something else I could change. Finding another brushstroke has never been difficult, the difficult part is deciding whether I should make it.
I've changed sections countless times only to realise later that I preferred them the way they were before. I've painted over areas, lived with the changes for a few days and eventually worked back towards something remarkably similar to what I'd originally had.
Those hours weren't wasted.
They taught me that making a change isn't the same as making an improvement.
And I think that's true of creativity in general. We often assume that more effort automatically produces better work, but sometimes it simply produces different work. Knowing the difference is far harder than making the change itself.
People often talk about trusting their instincts, but I think what they're really talking about is trusting their judgement.
Painting isn't simply applying paint to canvas. It's making thousands of micro decisions while never being completely certain any of them are right.
When people watch an artist work, they naturally focus on the brushstrokes because that's the visible part. What they don't see is the constant conversation taking place inside the artist's head.
Does this colour feel too heavy?
Has this section become too busy?
Am I improving the painting or simply changing it?
These questions never disappear. Experience doesn't remove uncertainty. It simply teaches you which doubts deserve your attention and which ones don't.
That doesn't just apply to the marks you make deliberately. It also applies to the ones you never intended to make.
Paint creeps underneath masking tape. A layer peels away differently than expected. Something unexpected appears. Bob Ross famously described these moments as happy accidents, but I don't think the accident itself is the interesting part. The interesting part is deciding whether it belongs.
Sometimes the unexpected mark brings an energy I couldn't have planned. Other times it distracts from everything else the painting is trying to do. Once again, it comes back to judgement.
The more I paint, the more I realise that almost every creative decision eventually arrives at the same place. Choosing what to paint. Choosing what to leave out. Knowing when to push further and when to leave something alone.
Sadly there isn't a checklist that tells you you're done. There isn't a correct answer hidden somewhere waiting to be discovered.
Eventually the responsibility comes back to you.
The longer I've painted, the less interested I've become in perfection and the more interested I've become in honesty.
Perfection assumes there's a single correct destination. Honesty accepts that every painting is simply a record of who you were when you made it. It reflects your current abilities, your current judgement and your current understanding of what you are trying to say.
Today I'll finish paintings differently than I did ten years ago. In another ten years I'll almost certainly finish them differently again.
That isn't inconsistency. It's growth.
So I've stopped asking whether a painting is perfect.
Instead I ask myself a different question.
Does this honestly represent what I was trying to achieve? If the answer is yes, I put the paint brush down.
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I’m a UK contemporary abstract portrait artist exploring inner noise, quiet pressure and the emotional complexity of modern life through fragmented portraiture and bold colour. I create original paintings and limited edition prints, while also writing about art, exhibitions and the realities of being an artist today. I also share work in progress and life in the studio on Instagram @paulkneenart.
