In college, a professor of mine posed a question to the class. The question being “how do you know you are done with a painting?”. Many saying “I just know”, like it is a feeling. Others describe it formulaically as a balance of composition and color. Both answers have their own merit. I have since thought on and off about this question. Recently, I think I have found my answer:

When the painting comes alive. When I have placed its soul. When I look at it and I feel that it is looking at me. We share a moment. When the breath of life has passed through and blown back in my face. That is when I know I’m done painting. 

And maybe the painting isn’t finished. Maybe there is background to complete and details to touch up. Areas where the formula is applied. But the painting is made. It is alive. It begins to experience the brush strokes that surround it. It is complete in that it is immortalized in the canvas material, held by the wooden frame.

I am done painting when I see a piece of myself in the tissue. The genetic makeup is clear, decisive. “You are the creator!”, it exclaims, as if on a reality-type paternity show. I can recognize the face like it’s one I’ve always known. It is the formula guided by the feeling. This is how I know I am done with a painting.