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If you're like me, you start every painting nursing a secret hope that it might become your next masterpiece.  I'm not sure this is a bad thing; such wild desires probably feed the creative fire.  But the reality is that while some paintings hit your high mark, others fall flat, or never get off the ground.  What I've had to learn over years as a practicing artist is that the practice is the point.  Every day of painting is a good day, even the failures.  This may seem like an obvious point, but in a culture which values productivity above all, shedding this mindset is tough.  

Plein air painting has taught me this lesson most clearly, and helped me shed those expectations.    

I have always primarily been a studio painter, probably because until recently, I nearly always got better results in the studio. But in the past five years, I've added plein air painting as a regular part of my practice and it's had a huge impact on my work. The key to finding enjoyment and satisfaction in plein air painting, for me, has been to let go of any expectations in a final product. Even a really "bad" day of plein air painting is a great day of painting.  

A recent afternoon's experience will demonstrate what I mean.  A friend and I arrived at a beautiful riverside location at 5:30 in the evening.

The sun was just beginning to lower. We quickly realized we needed a shady spot, and we both chose an appealing view from a comfortable shaded location.   I created thumb nail design and got to work.  

Because of the tricky twilight hour, the quick light and color changes were seductive, but nearly impossible to keep up with.

After 45 minutes I had a rather incoherent, garish expression of what had started with an ok thumbnail design.

I abandoned that sketch and began again.

Having attempted the larger scene, I felt free to zoom in on the second try, as I noticed some gorgeous, backlit reeds on the distant bank glowing orange against a cool purple-green shadow. I was too far away to see them clearly, and had not brought my good camera. That freed me up to try a looser, abstracted sketch.  I spent a half hour studying the deep cool green shadows against rosy, peachy warm sunlight.  The resulting painting fell flat, and does not begin to capture the catch in my breath when when I looked at them.

 However, the process forced me to look hard at the colors that created the glow. That half hour made my afternoon worthwhile, because even though the image on my board doesn't glow, the image in my mind does. With the sketch and my reference photos (also inadequate), and most importantly with my memory, I can now head back to the studio and capture the magic I saw.  Plein air painting is visceral:  I can feel the heat and humidity, move in the space, hear the birds, swat at the bugs.  In other words I can take in colors, atmosphere, spatial depth, light, and edge quality with all of my senses.  The lived experience of a plein air painting session serves me back in the studio, helping me read my flat, silent photos.  

A lot of what we do as artists happens in the mind, and in the space and time of creative freedom that we allow ourselves.  Rather than expecting a framable outcome, I find it more useful and more stimulating to approach a painting with a sense of discovery.  There is always more to learn and our practice is always evolving.  I've learned to be kind to myself as a painter and respect my flops as paintings that strengthen my skills and remind me of important things (i.e. don't attempt a complex scene at sunset, maybe do another thumbnail before committing to this design).  I console myself as I face my flops against the studio wall, that they are an investment in tomorrow's masterpiece.

It's all good.