When I first started working with abstract portraits and line art, I had this vague idea that I wanted to make something celebratory. A birthday girl, maybe. That felt playful and open enough to see where it might lead.
I started with color. Bright ones. I scattered them across the paper in circles, splotches, and blocks. It felt like a good foundation, even though I didn’t yet know who the portrait would become. I let the layers dry over a few days while I thought about the face that might live on top of them.
That piece was the first time everything clicked in a way I hadn’t experienced before. Instead of forcing decisions, I trusted my hand. I remember starting with her hair and thinking, Okay, here we go. Then came an eye, a nose, an eyebrow. I was tickled by the bushiness of the opposite brow.
Suddenly, there she was. A real face looking back at me.
She could have been finished at that point. Technically, she was complete. But the mouth wasn’t right. I stared at it, trying to understand why.
It needed color, but every option on my table felt wrong. Too loud. Too garish. Any of them would have tipped the whole piece in the wrong direction. So I walked away.
That pause made all the difference. Somewhere between leaving the studio and doing something entirely unrelated, I realized what was missing. Watercolor. Something loose and understated to complement the vibrancy of everything surrounding it. The moment I brushed those softer hues across her lips, the mouth finally made sense.
Still thinking in birthday terms, I nearly added a party hat. I even sketched it out before stopping myself. Too literal. Instead, I gave her a crown. Simple and unfussy. Just enough to hold her place in the composition.
She looked perfect.
And yet, the painting didn’t feel finished.
That’s the part that’s hardest to explain. Visually, everything worked. But something in me knew it wasn’t done yet. I stepped away again. When I came back, I looked at the piece from above. Then from the side. I tilted it, rotated it, let my eyes rest where they wanted to.
And then I added two thin golden lines beneath one of her eyes.
That was it.
I can’t fully explain why those lines mattered, only that the moment they were there, I knew. The tension resolved. The piece settled. Nothing else needed to be touched.
That’s how I know a painting is finished.
At some point, there’s nothing left to fix. Only something to ruin.
P.S. I opted to keep this one for myself since it symbolizes my creative breakthrough!