Last year alone, I've done two studio clean-outs of epic size. After almost giving a year's worth of painting up—and trying to sell off on older work—at last, I found myself in the situation where I couldn't help but ignore the fact: much of what I'd been accumulating simply no longer resonated with me.
Some of it was like ghosts of old selves. Some were like artistic detours without destinations. I chose to release the work that didn't belong to me anymore. And not just the work—equipment, material, drawings, canvases, pieces of paper. All that maybe-someday work I was clinging to habit or shame.
I decided that I want to work on a bigger scale from now on. Bigger canvases, greater leeway. The smaller ones can still be included in the mix—especially for pieces updated or photo-based—but in general, I'm done thinking small. That goes for both the art and my thought process.
I've had this cleaning compulsion every now and then. To strip things bare. Every now and then I'll catch myself thinking, maybe it's because I'm afraid of being a hoarder. I'm not—not by a long way. But I have worked in hoarder homes. I've seen firsthand what happens when creative energy gets turned inward and gets stuck. I don't want that for myself.
All the same, I do and don't have much. It's all relative. Over the years I've given away, donated, or sold off an enormous quantity of things. Books to free libraries. Art supplies and other materials to those friends of mine who require them. I might have made more money if I'd sold everything—but sometimes it just feels better to give.
I won't deceive you. There are a few things I do regret giving away. A fragment of which I miss. A book of which I wish I still owned. And certainly some money regrets, as well. But some of this is learning to live with that. To remind myself: someone else might be in greater need of it than I am. And I still have the memory, the story, the version of the thing in my mind. That's a kind of preservation, too.
To help with releasing, I've started documenting things—taking photos of things before releasing them. It's a small ritual that soothes me. If I want to revisit, I can. If I want to remake, I'll have a path to follow.
Releasing is now a part of my process. It's clearing space—physically, but mentally and emotionally as well. It's what makes the work honest. It makes me honest.
And every time that I let something go, I remind myself: it's not lost. It just changed hands. Maybe it'll have a new life somewhere else. Maybe that letting go will come back to me in some different guise.
Some think that kindness comes back tenfold. I don't know if it always does. I do know, though, that releasing the things which no longer fit is the only way to make space for what comes next.
And I'm ready for what comes next.
Photographer and artist Based in Columbia County NY
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