Learning Is Messy

September 30, 2026

I was talking with my partner last week about teaching and one of the things she said stuck with me. “Learning is messy.” It was simple, almost a cliche, but true. Learning takes time. We mess things up. Many times we need to start over. Occasionally a painting comes together beautifully, almost effortlessly, and we delight in the flow. Other times we find ourselves on the struggle bus, unsure how to get off.

For many of us, learning doesn’t happen in a linear fashion. We need to step back, step away, or work on another painting in order to figure out what isn’t working. We need to study composition or color so we can assess our own paintings and how we might make them stronger.

Pushing ourselves out beyond our comfort zones to realize what is possible takes practice. We need to practice getting uncomfortable, allow ourselves to make work that isn’t pretty, that feels a bit wild.

This practice can, over time, become something that we are at peace with. We begin to think of our time in the studio as time in a laboratory. We consider that we are not just artists, but scientists of a sort, studying ourselves and our work - asking “what if,” experimenting with new materials, observing our habits, creating hypotheses.

I know firsthand the disappointment of realizing a painting you labored over isn’t as successful as it could be. I have struggled with the voices that tell me I could have a beautiful, weed-free garden; could have spent the afternoon creating a delicious meal; or gone hiking with friends - any number of things rather than making a painting that falls short of my expectations.

But over time I have grown to understand that none of the time in my studio is wasted. Whether I am reworking a painting, or cleaning and sorting supplies, ideas begin to appear. Connections are forged. I sip tea and flip through the pages of another artist’s catalogue, noticing the decisions they made. I spend an hour drawing my plants and a new shape appears. I sort through old paintings and discover something there to respond to, some way to resolve what is unfinished.

We are works in progress. We are artists because we spend time making, giving voice to the creations that appear in our mind. If you practice holding space for your work to evolve, being less judgmental of it, less tethered to your likes and dislikes, it will continue to grow as you do. This practice is like exercising a muscle. Over time we become less disturbed by what isn’t working and more attuned to what is.

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Sewing offers me the opportunity to experiment with color, form, and line. As an avid and longtime collector of fabric, I'm making my way through my stockpile and turning it into a bunch of beautiful tote bags. I will confess - I can barely sew a straight line. I'm taking an interpretive lens to sewing and thinking of my stitch marks as an exercise in mark making.

The Slow Lane

As I finish up work for an upcoming exhibition, I find myself reflecting on the past ten months. I have spread various paintings across my floor and leaned them up against walls in my studio, grouping them to see what looks good together, noting which still need hanging hardware or their sides painted. It’s interesting to note what I painted and when, to take a moment to step back and study how the year unfolded - not in the news, or in social media, but in my studio.

Observation

My friend and colleague Jeff Hirst once described the type of looking he does in his studio as being akin to a one-sided game of chess. The comment made me laugh, but it’s completely accurate. I spend so much time looking, studying, thinking, figuring, puzzling, so much time not knowing, feeling my way into paintings. Sometimes I have to set them aside for a period because I just do not know where to go next. Sometimes they come flying out of me almost fully formed.

Inspiration

I live two blocks down the street from my seventy-five year mother, which means I see her nearly everyday. One morning last week I stopped by her house as I was walking my dog. When I mentioned I was on my way to my studio for the day she asked, “are you feeling inspired today?” I had to think about that before I responded because I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired at that moment.

The Names of Things

Titles add meaning to our work, offering an entry point into what the work is about. Titles are names. And the names of things matter in all sorts of ways. Author Anne West notes that titles are hints. They have suggestive power and can hold secrets, as well as stimulate the imagination. Titles put objects into new contexts. Often I receive questions about my titles, in particular why I use words in other languages. So, I thought I would share a little bit about my journey around titling.

Solitude

When my partner and I moved in together in 2005, she let me know pretty much right off the bat that she required several hours to herself to paint on Saturdays. Neither of us could afford studios outside our flat in San Francisco, so we needed to negotiate time alone at home. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself at first. And I felt a little odd heading out on my own. But, true to my word, I left the apartment that first Saturday and, for lack of a better plan, took the MUNI down to the farmer’s market at the Embarcadero. I strolled around, ate delicious food from stands, and listened to street musicians. I had always loved hiking, so when I was finished with the market, I decided to walk the six miles home.

Everyday Heroes

The results from my Everyday Hero Giveaway are in, but first I want to share a portrait of the stories you shared with me. Each of the individuals nominated displayed qualities of selflessness, generosity, kindness, and commitment. As one nominator noted, “Heroes don’t put themselves first. Heroes move us forward. Heroes inspire us to be our better selves.” My team of jurors and I were impressed and humbled. Let me tell you about a few people doing good work in your communities during this pandemic.

On Faith + Perseverance

I’ve been painting the same painting over and over this past month, as a square and as a rectangle, adding and removing color, scaling it up and down, and rearranging the design elements. It has been a big ongoing lesson and one that has been super frustrating at times, particularly when it doesn’t work out. However, I’ve also learned quite a bit about how I work, what my preference are in terms of scale and color and overall composition.

The Memory Project

In 2016, when I was renting space from my friend Anne in her sprawling beautiful barn studio, I was the recipient one Sunday afternoon of an informal, unsolicited art critique with a five year old. I’ve never forgotten it. Anne’s granddaughter Fiona, who lived at the end of the dirt road at the entrance to their thirteen acres, was a not infrequent visitor. She even had her own space for painting and other craft-related projects to work on during the days when Anne watched her.

Vander Schaaf_Regn_24x32_encaustic, oil, and 23 karat gold leaf on panel_2019.jpg

PAUSE

To pause is to notice the transitions between moments - to move thoughtfully and consciously from eating to talking to washing the dishes to walking the dog. I began to bring this practice into my life when I recognized how much of the time I was disconnected from what I was actually doing in the moment, my brain having already moved onto the next thing on my to do list. As I considered the implications of the word “pause,” I simultaneously began notice it everywhere.

Mapping

Painting is an investigatory process, a practice of diving deep within to make manifest what is there. Paintings are records of their creators at particular moments in time. And the studio is a laboratory where the discipline of painting takes place. For me, the act of painting is guided by questions and some of the most helpful are also the simplest.

Self-Study + the Studio

Svādhyāya (स्वाध्याय) is a Sanskrit term that means self-study, in particular the recitation of the Vedas and other sacred texts. The word is made up of Sva, meaning own, self, or the human soul, and Adhyaya, meaning lesson, lecture, or reading. In various schools of Hinduism, svadhyaya is a Niyama (virtuous observance) connoting introspection or an ongoing study of the self. I first heard this strange sounding word when I was going through my 200 hr yoga teacher training in 2014. As part of our education, we were required to memorize the Yamas (duties or restraints) and the Niyamas, along with a host of other words and precepts.

Start Differently

I have an app on my phone called Oblique Strategies. It’s the digital version of a card-based method for promoting creativity that was jointly created by Brian Eno and Peter Schmidt in the mid 70s. Subtitled “Over One Hundred Worthwhile Dilemmas,” it was intended to help artists (musicians at the time) break creative blocks by encouraging lateral thinking (an indirect approach to problem solving that uses reasoning in ways that are not immediately obvious and involves ideas that may not be obtainable using step-by-step logic).

Flow

August flew by faster than usual this year as I packed and moved my studio from a 300 sq. ft. space in downtown Portland to a 1,200 sq. ft. studio in Westbrook. I’ve also been prepping for my annual encaustic and yoga retreats in Kennebunkport, Maine this month. Knee deep in boxes at times, I kept myself grounded by taking one task at a time and making lists. I haven’t had much time for painting or writing, so will share a quote from the book I am currently reading on creativity and finding your artistic voice.

Riding the Wave

Last night I picked up Meditations on Intention and Being by Rolf Gates, which I began reading earlier this year. In the beginning of chapter 4, Gates notes two abilities that enable the student of yoga to cultivate mindfulness or the practice of allowing the mind to settle. Abhyasa is the ability to repeatedly align our attention with the present moment and vairagya is letting an experience arise and pass without reacting to it. Of course, these are beneficial concepts across the full spectrum of life, but I find them particularly useful in my studio practice.

Drawer of Possibilities

In a workshop recently a student shared something I had said several years ago that had stayed with her and altered her perception. She said that during a previous class she had described a drawer in her studio as a “drawer of shame,” because it was full of failed paintings. I asked her to reconsider how she was defining this space. “What if it were a drawer of possibilities?” I asked.

The Art of Doing Nothing

At a party last week an acquaintance and I were chatting about my recent trip to The Netherlands. He asked me if I was familiar with the Dutch concept of niksen. “Niksen?” I asked. “Nope. I’ve never heard of it.” Similar to the Danish concept of hygge, but distinctly different, and not exactly the same as practicing mindfulness, niksen means doing nothing or, more specifically, doing something without a purpose, like staring out the window, hanging out, or listening to music.

We Are Poems

Matsuo Basho (1644-1694) was one of the greatest Japanese poets. He elevated haiku to the level of serious poetry in numerous anthologies and travel diaries. Years ago when I started a new office job in San Francisco, I arrived to find my desk completely cleaned and organized, a blank slate waiting for me to claim it. The only thing my predecessor left behind was this simple poem on a small yellow stickie note pinned to the wall. I left it there the five years I worked in that space and it served as a constant reminder to be fully present and to let go at the same time.

The Story of a Painting

I often share a story with my students about the evolution of one of my favorite paintings. It’s a story about persistence despite misgivings. It’s a story about staying in the conversation even when that conversation is not going well FOR A VERY LONG TIME. And it’s a story about having faith that the questions one is trying to explore have their own timeframe for opening. It’s the story of a painting called Hiver (French for winter).

Being Right There

The opportunity to step away from the familiar patterns of our lives, from the to-do lists and the appointments, the cleaning and errands and schedules, can provide a much needed shift. This was true for me recently when I spent 10 days in San Miguel de Allende visiting friends. I lived out of a suitcase putting together outfits from far fewer choices than I have at home. I carried little in my backpack other than a wallet, my phone for taking pictures, and a water bottle. I ate when I was hungry and walked for hours each day. And there was ample time for yoga and reading, even a little meditation on the patio outside our room.

Light Piece

I have been thinking about light a lot this winter. It’s my first winter working from home and I have two big windows in my home studio, as well as two big windows in my studio. I am enjoying watching the sunrise while I drink my coffee observing the birds at my kitchen feeder and long mid-afternoon walks with my dog. Just soaking up as much light as I can. I’m also thinking about the light we share with others when we teach or share from the radiance of our own being.

What's Your Hurry?

Shifting gears from making to cleaning, sorting, and finishing work allows me to slow down. I cleaned all of my brushes over the course of several hours, separating ones to put into my workshop supplies to donate to students. I vacuumed and mopped the floors, watered plants, installed hanging hardware, and read Strange Familiar: The Work of Georg Gudni.

Pare Down To The Essence

Pare down to the essence, but don’t remove the poetry. This is the heart of wabi-sabi according to a slim volume by Leonard Koren I am currently reading. And a rule of thumb I've long applied to my work (although not always successfully). This time of year, instead of resolutions, I like to choose a word to focus on. My word for 2019 is strength. Strength to withstand when the work isn't going well and the doubts creep in. Strength to make the right choices for myself moment to moment, knowing when to be alone and when to go out into the world, when to stay up late and when to rise with the dawn. And strength in the literal sense, which I need for the series of larger paintings I am working on.

Buckets of Light

A few years ago I spent time on Isle de Mujeres in Mexico. All over the island my sisters and I found scenes like this--debris, flux, and in its midst, startling beauty. As Diane Ackerman writes in A Natural History of the Senses, "Much of life becomes background, but it is the province of art to throw buckets of light into the shadows and make life new again."

[PAUSE]