Standing Too Close

Sketchbook Image

On the left, a densely worked interior scene: chairs, a table and a window layered in green pastel. On the right, a study of leftover gerberas in green glass, a till receipt, and a line of text about a yellow lid on a scrap of brown paper — some of these things I would usually edit out. In the photograph, they are captured, and so is the flaw that had me passing over this image for years.

I no longer have the original work. When I first took the photograph, I saw only bad light and an imperfect record. Something I would not need again.

Revisiting the image years later, I noticed something else. The photograph had preserved my work and exposed me. My shadow falls across the lower right-hand corner. My outline interrupts the surface. I had been standing too close. On the paper, in my handwriting, are the words: Leftover gerberas brought me curves like a yellow lid — a note to myself, written while making. Some words catch the light, and others disappear beneath my shadow.

In the photograph, I am caught as the maker and the gatekeeper, deciding in advance whether the work was worth continuing with. The critic in me was at work, shielding me from disappointment by ending the process early. I had learned to be ruthless. To cut decisively. Over time, I began to mistake abandonment for discernment, as though erasing early proved I had judged properly, rather than losing patience with the slow work of becoming.

Something shifted when I stopped and looked at this photo. I almost edited myself out. Then I understood that my presence was evidence of something that rarely remains visible once the work is finished. I had, inadvertently, captured the stage where I stand in my own way.

My work begins with jars, tables, and half-finished thoughts — arrangements that do not announce themselves as important. I tend to start my work with what is already around me at home. I am learning that success may not be the finished thing I once assumed it would be. It may be that success is the ability to stay. To remain attentive. To keep working with something that has not found its form.

When I look at this photograph now, I no longer see a failure. I see a record of the layered surface, the line and the handwritten note. I see someone standing too close, trying to understand what is unfolding and deciding too quickly what deserves to survive. I have spent years learning how to disappear from my own work, mistaking technical fluency for the destination. It is tempting to believe that one should know the outcome.

I am glad I captured my shadow. It remains as evidence — not of an error, but of judgement arriving too early. The critic is there, but I am learning to recognise her.