Challenges made me hate painting
I don’t do challenges. I just paint.
I’ve never liked challenges.
Not because I’m lazy. Not because I can’t commit. But because the second I say “thirty days of painting” out loud, something shifts. This grey cloud shows up. Heavy with obligation. And suddenly I’m not painting because I love it — I’m painting so I don’t fail myself. Those are two very different things.
So I stopped doing that.
Now I just have an intention: paint every day. Not for my followers. Not to fill a streak. Because painting is mine, and I want to keep it that way.
What I’ve figured out is that the days that matter most aren’t the inspired ones. They’re the days I really, truly don’t want to. Those are the ones I show up for anyway — put paint on the palette, make one mark, see what happens. Not because I’m disciplined. Because I know that if I wait until I feel like it, I’ll wait forever. And after those days? I’m the most proud of myself.
No cloud. Just a brush and me.
But there’s another kind of day. Honestly, the hardest kind.
When you were ready. You had the idea, the energy, you cleared the time — and nothing came out. You sit there staring at the canvas feeling like a fraud.
That one stings in a different way.
I’m still learning to be okay with it. Still learning that a bad painting day doesn’t mean I’m bad at painting. That sometimes your hands and your head just aren’t synced up, even if your heart wants it. It’s not a sign. It’s just Tuesday.
Not every day is going to give you something. But every day is still part of it.
The empty days too.
Me encantan tus pinturas, sigue así, eres una gran artista.
If you were the last person on earth, nobody else around at all, ever, and all your needs for survival and comfort were met ... would you still paint?