The Hardest Question I Get as an Artist

How I know when a piece is finished and why slowing down makes all the difference.

One of the questions that I am being asked most often, besides how long does it take to finish your work? is this: When do you know a piece is finished?

I have sort of answered the first question already (you can read it here), so let’s dive into the second one.

How do I know this is it—the piece is finished, nothing else to add, nothing else to change? And what does it feel when that happens?

What does it feel like when a piece begins to speak back to me?

At first I don’t believe it. There is the moment of: Is it? Is it truly? Is this happening?
It feels like a gift, like some holy connection. But often, it is also the moment when fear and doubt slip in: Can I deliver? Can I see it through to the end? Will I not mess it up?

It’s a moment of appreciation, of feeling grateful but also… of letting go, of the expectations, outcomes, attachments.
This is still the beginning of the conversation. And like in any good conversation, I need to listen too, not only speak. It’s an exchange.

Why slowing down matters

This is the time to slow down. For me, slowing down is everything. It helps me make marks that are both intuitive and intentional.
I don’t layer for the sake of layering. Not anymore, I mean. I used to. Back then, I was lost in layers. Hiding in them. It was my comfort zone.
Slap another layer and see what happens - oh look! a mess, but I am ‘in process’—and another canvas would end up in the bin. And no finished work meant not having to talk about it too. Problem ‘solved’.
So no, not anymore. I no longer add because I don’t know what’s next.

No I look. I listen.

I let ideas come but don’t act upon them straight away. I let them sit. Be a potential. See how it feels. I spend more time just looking at my work in progress, than adding things to it.

‘Hereafter’, this piece came alive only when I stopped forcing and started listening.

The pull of ‘glory’

When I feel I am getting closer to the finish line, another challenge can arrive: a moment when I often think of the ‘glory’ that may come. And it is never good.

Sometimes I put pressure on the piece that begins to speak to me, thinking it is going to be ‘the one’—whatever it means to me in that moment. And I am very mindful of this now and try to avoid that kind of narrative as it never helps. I no longer create for the hidden goal of validation, external or internal.

So… how do I know when something is finished?

Sometimes it’s a clear ending. Sometimes it’s just a pause. I am still learning to discern the difference.

The more I create, the easier it gets. It’s like building a muscle or like working on your intuition. The more aware you are of it, the more you use it, acknowledge it, the stronger it becomes.

Most of the time, it’s a deep gut feeling.
You make that last mark, you step back, and… everything holds. And the feeling is always strong.

The pieces that I have claimed as finished, when I look at them even after few years, I never want to add or change things. I know, it hold everything it supposed to hold.
What I struggle with more, is the fact, that I am in such a different place now. Different energy. Sometimes it feels like someone else created that work. But I hardly ever want to ‘fix’ it. I honour what was.
I’m learning how to speak about my earlier creations even when I have changed, my techniques have changed and overall I feel bit disconnected from them. If you have any advice in this—please share your ideas!

The stillness after the finish

The moment when the piece is done can also feel tricky: What next? Will I be able to do it again? Where do I go from here?

This is another moment that calls for slowing down. I journal a lot during my process, all stages of it, and this right here, that’s the stage that needs it too.

Sometimes I dive straight into another blank surface. Sometimes I already have something else in progress, as I often work on a few pieces at once. But sometimes, what’s needed is stillness. Flushing out all that was. Making space to what wants to come. I’m still learning to navigate this.

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Note to self

A few days or weeks after the piece is finished, don’t let that inner, horrible narrative trick you. Remember the moment the piece spoke to you. Remember your connection. The voice that says ‘it is not good enough’? It’s not your friend.

And I am writing it as a reminder to myself too.

After every piece, I journal to slow down, to listen and to open space for what comes next.

Thank you so much for reading. Your presence here means a lot!

From my heart to yours, Ela