Look at my online portfolio, and you only see the final act of my creative process. Abstract art looks like a collection of harmonious layers of paint and balanced textures. You notice the polished sheen of a completed piece. Everything looks deliberate, as though it was always meant to exist exactly that way.
However, if you stepped into my studio mid-process, you might want to turn right back around. You would catch me in the middle of what artists call the “ugly stage.”
Key Takeaways
- Every painting I make goes through an “ugly stage,” a chaotic middle phase that feels like a disaster but is actually where the real work happens.
- Safety doesn’t produce great art. Avoiding the mess keeps a piece polite and predictable; working through a failed layer is what creates the most interesting textures and color interactions.
- The physical ritual around painting, prepping in silence, cleaning up after, is as much a part of the process as the brushwork itself.
Every single painting I create goes through this phase. It looks like a muddy, disjointed disaster. To be honest, I often feel a bit scared to show people that part of my world. As an abstract artist, exposing the messy middle feels like exposing your deepest insecurities. Yet the more I sit with this discomfort, the more I realize the truth: this stage isn’t an obstacle to bypass. It’s the exact place where authentic art is born.
The Hesitation at the Door
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about hesitation and how it affects the creative process. Abstract art requires a lot of emotional output, so you sometimes feel a strange, heavy resistance to just walking into the studio and starting.
I know that feeling intimately. For me, the hesitation comes from a mix of things. Because my main studio is small, I constantly fight the fear of making a mess. I worry about making mistakes, and I worry about ruining the perfect, calm order I worked so hard to establish.
Ultimately, the friction is real. When your workspace is tight, a mess feels magnified.
Fortunately, I had a beautiful reminder yesterday of why we take the risk. A friend and I decided to visit a new art store down in Westminster. The moment I walked through the doors, that heavy hesitation vanished completely, replaced by pure, childlike excitement. I started looking at new colors and feeling the textures, then picked up a fresh jar of my absolute favorite gold by Golden.
There’s a physical weight to good paint. Squeezing that heavy-body Golden acrylic onto the palette feels substantial. It has a specific, clean scent that instantly tells my brain: it’s time to work. Standing in that store, I simply couldn’t wait to get back to the canvas. I wanted to try it out and see what would happen next.
The Gold in the Silence
To navigate the friction of starting, my personal creative process for abstract art has shifted. It’s now a deeper, more reflective space. In a small studio, the soundscape matters just as much as the physical space. In the past, my studio was filled with the sounds of great Blues music, and I loved that energy. Right now, though, I find myself deeply drawn to the quiet, because I’m focused on creating calm, serene artworks.
For me, silence is truly Golden.
I’ve found that the best way to face the canvas is to prepare my mind first. Before I ever pick up a paintbrush, I sit in absolute silence. Sometimes I begin with a short meditation; other times, I practice a gentle chant. This simple ritual allows me to let go of the outside world, ground myself, and move forward into the chaos with a sense of peace.
By cultivating a still, silent environment before the storm of painting begins, I can steady my hands when my mind starts to panic.
The Safe Container for the Chaos
That trip to Westminster taught me something deep about my own creative process. I actually do like making a mess. In fact, I love it, partly because I also love the deeply therapeutic act of cleaning it up afterward. The real block isn’t the mess itself. It’s the fear of being seen in the middle of it.
I think I just dislike showing my audience and my collectors the kind of total, uncurated mess that I can make. We live in a world obsessed with perfection: the clean aesthetic, the flawless time-lapse, the beautiful “after” photo. So I have a habit of hiding the struggle because I’m still learning to let go of perfectionism.
Next week, I’m heading to my second studio space. As I pack up my new Westminster paints and my Golden gold, I feel a huge wave of relief, because I know I can go there and completely make a mess. It’s a space where the pressure of perfection is stripped away, so I can just play.
The cleanup isn’t just maintenance either. It’s a closing ritual. Washing the acrylic out of the brushes and organizing the tubes by color is how I honor the work I just did, even if the painting is still in its ugly phase. It’s how I put the painting to bed and close the chapter on that day’s struggle.
The Physicality of Constraints
When I’m back in my main, smaller studio, the physical challenge changes. When a canvas is nearly as tall as you are, and your studio boundaries are tight, you can’t easily step back twenty feet to evaluate your composition. Instead, you’re forced into an intimate, almost claustrophobic relationship with the paint.
Every movement must be deliberate. You have to learn how to see the whole macro-composition while standing just inches away from the micro-details.
In a small studio, organization isn’t just a preference. It’s an active collaborator. If my jars aren’t capped, they spill when I rotate a heavy canvas. If my brushes aren’t washed and filed away, they ruin. This strict spatial discipline acts as a counterweight to the wild nature of abstract expressionism. The tight boundaries of the room force the energy directly onto the canvas, turning limitation into focus.
Why Safety Doesn’t Produce Great Art
For a long time, I hated the messy middle. It triggered my imposter syndrome. Every time a composition got muddy, I wanted to grab a giant jar of white gesso, paint over the entire thing, and pretend it never happened.
But over the years, the canvas has taught me a hard truth: safety does not produce great art.
If I try to avoid the mess, I end up making choices that are polite and predictable. I stay inside my comfort zone, using color combinations I know will work and strokes I can execute in my sleep. The work lacks soul.
It’s only when the painting completely falls apart in my neat little studio that I’m forced to take real risks. When a piece looks terrible, the fear of ruining it vanishes. It’s already “ruined.” That’s the exact moment liberation kicks in.
Some of the most captivating textures in my finished work only exist because I was desperately trying to scrape away a layer that failed. The most interesting color interactions are often the result of an accidental spill or a frustrated, heavy-handed brushstroke. The beauty is born directly from the struggle.
How to Spot the “Ghosts” in Abstract Art
Once you learn to trust the messy middle, the way you look at art changes entirely. The next time you stand in front of a finished painting, I challenge you to look past the surface layer. Look closely at the edges of the canvas. Peer beneath the top coat of paint. You’ll start to see the “ghosts” of the artwork’s history:
- A flash of bright neon orange peeking out from under a calm, moody blue.
- A ridge of thick texture that doesn’t quite match the current brushstrokes.
- A scratched line revealing a layer that was buried weeks ago.
Those aren’t mistakes. Those are the scars of the middle stage. They give the painting its weight, its history, and its depth. A painting built in a single, easy layer feels flat. A painting that fought its way to the finish line feels alive.
The Middle Is Allowed to Be Messy
The ultimate reason I want to share my messy studio, my art store adventures, and my fears with you is because this isn’t just about paint. The studio is a mirror for life.
The canvas teaches me over and over again that the middle of any journey is allowed to be a mess. Whether you’re navigating a career change, building a business, repairing a relationship, or going through a season of personal healing, there’s always an intermediate phase where everything feels confusing and unresolved. We look at other people’s finished portfolios on social media and panic because our current stage feels so disorganized.
But the messy middle isn’t a sign of failure. Doesn’t mean you lack talent, and it doesn’t mean you should quit. Simply means you’re in the thick of the creative process. It means a breakthrough is coming, but you have to stay in the room to see it.
So I’ll keep organizing my small studio, clearing the decks, and prepping my mind in the quiet. Then I’ll step up to the canvas, dip my brush into that brand-new gold, and willingly make a beautiful, necessary mess.
Next time you see a finished painting hanging quietly on a clean wall, remember the journey it took to get there: the doubt, the silence, and the resilience.
Trust the process. Especially when it gets messy.
Frequently Asked Questions
What is the “ugly stage” of the creative process?
It’s the chaotic, muddy middle phase every painting goes through before it resolves, where the composition can look like a disjointed mess. It’s uncomfortable to show, but it’s also where the most authentic, textured work actually gets made.
Why does working in a small studio actually help rather than hurt the process?
Tight physical boundaries force real discipline: capped jars, washed brushes, deliberate movement. That constraint acts as a counterweight to the wild, expansive nature of abstract expressionism, turning limitation into focus instead of frustration.
What are the “ghosts” you can see in a finished abstract painting?
They’re traces of earlier layers that didn’t get fully painted over: a flash of color peeking through, a texture ridge that doesn’t match the top layer, a scratched line revealing something buried weeks earlier. They’re not mistakes, they’re the visible history of the piece, and they’re part of what gives a painting depth.
Do you apply this same process to commissioned work?
Yes. A commission goes through the same messy middle as any other piece; I don’t skip it just because a client is waiting. If you’re curious about what that process looks like for a custom piece, reach out and we can talk it through.
Trust the Process
Have you ever hesitated to start something because you were afraid of the mess it would make, either literally or metaphorically? How do you let go of perfectionism? I’d love to hear about it. Reach out, or browse the gallery to see where some of these messy middles ended up.
