It was a cold January night in Argonne, and I had just come home from a long shift at the call center. My feet were tired, my voice was hoarse from soothing frazzled callers, and all I wanted was to paint the Northern Lights dancing across my kitchen ceiling.
I had this grand vision — swirling greens and purples, like auroras caught in a dream. I mixed my Prussian Blue with a generous splash of turpentine, thinking I was being clever. I was not being clever.
By the time I stepped back from the canvas, what should have been a shimmering aurora had turned into a gloomy storm cloud. The colors had bled together into a murky mess that looked like a thunderstorm trapped in a jar.
I sat on my kitchen floor, staring at that disaster, and I started to cry. Not because I was sad — but because I realized something important: patience isn't just a virtue. It's physics.
When you rush a painting, the colors fight each other. They don't blend; they brawl. But when you let each layer dry, when you give the paint time to settle, that's when the magic happens.
Now, when I paint the Northern Lights (and I do, every winter), I take my time. I let each color dry before I add the next. And sometimes, I even leave a little mistake in there — a smudge or a smudge that looks like a star. Because that's where the soul of the painting lives.
So here's to all your first slips. May they teach you something beautiful.
