The Urge to Hurry vs. the Need to Slow Down

I’m impatient by nature. There’s a part of me that wants every painting to come together quickly—brush to canvas, instant clarity, satisfying resolution. I want to see the thing finished. I want to feel that little rush of completion.

But art doesn’t work like that. Or at least, mine doesn’t.

Over time, I’ve learned that painting—especially the kind that tries to say something real—has its own pace. And it’s usually slower than I want it to be.

The False High of Quick Wins

There’s a certain seduction in moving fast. A sense of productivity, of “getting somewhere”. But I’ve noticed that when I chase that feeling, I often bypass the good stuff—the quiet decisions, the hesitant lines, the time spent really looking. I trade depth for dopamine.

It’s not that speed is bad. Some artists thrive in it. But for me, rushing usually means I’m trying to avoid discomfort. The discomfort of not knowing what comes next. Of not being “on track.” Of feeling like maybe the work isn’t working.

And yet, that very discomfort is where so much of the truth lives.

Slowness as a Form of Listening

When I slow down, the painting has a chance to speak back. I start to notice things I missed—the way a colour changes next to another, the subtlety in a sitter’s expression, the feeling behind the form. The work begins to evolve in its own language.

Slowness is how I build trust with the process. Not just trust that it’ll work out, but trust that it’s worth it, even when it doesn’t.

It’s in the long pauses, the hesitant edits, the days where nothing moves forward but something settles. It’s in the layers that only emerge because I gave them room.

Sometimes, the best thing I can do for a painting is walk away from it. There are evenings when I leave the studio frustrated or unsure, and I come back the next morning to find the answers sitting quietly on the canvas. It’s like the work needs space to breathe—and so do I. That overnight distance gives me fresh eyes, lets me see the painting for what it is, not what I was trying to force it to be. It reminds me that part of the creative process happens outside the studio, in the quiet hours of rest and reset.

The Ongoing Battle

Still, the tension remains. I’ll probably always have that restless part of me—eager to wrap things up, to cross the finish line, to tidy what feels unresolved. But I’m learning to meet that impatience with something softer. Curiosity, maybe. Or just patience for the impatience.

Because every time I try to rush the work into clarity, I rob it of complexity.

And every time I let it be messy, slow, unresolved for a while—something truer begins to form.

A Practice, Not a Problem

This isn’t something I’ve “fixed”. It’s a practice. Some days I manage to stay in the slowness; other days I fight it the whole way. But even that tug-of-war is part of the process. It’s not a flaw. It’s a rhythm.

Art teaches me this over and over again: urgency is rarely the route to meaning.

And the work that stays with me—whether mine or someone else’s—isn’t usually the quickest. It’s the one that took its time.

If you’d like to learn more about my creative process or see my latest work, feel free to reach out or check out the rest of my website.

.M.

Be real.

Make art.