BLOG - An Artist Work ART

No four words are more dangerous to an artist than: “I think I’m finished.” I have been creating art for most of my life, and I still don’t know exactly what those words mean. Finished? According to whom? I can finish a piece of artwork, hang it on the wall, photograph it, frame it, sign it, sell it—and still find myself staring at a photograph of it six months later, thinking: I should have done something different right there. Move that line. Darken that shadow. Change that color. Crop it tighter. Add something. Take something away. Maybe the problem isn’t the artwork. Maybe the problem is the artist. Because while the artwork may stop changing, the artist never does. And that creates an interesting philosophical question: When is a piece of art really finished?

The Curse of One More Thing

Artists have an unusual relationship with completion. Most people look at a painting and see what is there. The artist sees what could still be there. That is an enormous difference. Someone else might look at one of my pieces and say, “That’s beautiful.” I might look at the same piece and think: The composition is slightly off. That area needs more contrast. Maybe the background should be darker. What if I moved that element? And then come those wonderfully dangerous words: “Just one more thing.” Every artist knows them. Sometimes that one additional brushstroke makes the painting better. Sometimes it ruins three hours of work. Creating art involves a strange irony: the very instinct that lets us improve something is often the same instinct that keeps us from knowing when to leave it alone. Creativity depends upon dissatisfaction. But peace depends upon knowing when enough is enough. Artists spend their lives somewhere between the two.

Finished and Perfect Are Not the Same Thing

Perhaps part of the problem is that we confuse finished with perfect. They are not the same thing. If perfection is the requirement for completion, then nothing creative will ever be finished. There will always be another possibility. Another color. Another crop. Another sentence. Another photograph. Another brushstroke. Another version. The creative mind is essentially a possibility-generating machine. It continually asks: What if? What if I changed this? What if I moved that? What if I tried another version? What if I started over? That question has driven some of humanity’s greatest creative achievements. It is also responsible for artists sitting in front of something at two o’clock in the morning that probably should have been left alone at ten. At some point, improvement becomes alteration. And alteration is not necessarily improvement. Sometimes the bravest creative decision is putting down the brush.

Knowing When to Walk Away

I have come to believe a piece of art isn't necessarily finished when there is nothing else that can be done to it. That moment probably doesn't exist. Perhaps it is finished when nothing else needs to be done. That distinction has taken me years to appreciate. The question changes from: “Can I make another change?” to: “Does another change serve the work?” Those are completely different questions. The first is about possibility. The second is about purpose. And artistic maturity may involve learning the difference. Sometimes another brushstroke isn't for the painting. It is for the painter. We keep working because stopping feels uncomfortable, and stopping means surrendering control, accepting imperfection, and allowing the piece to exist independently of us. Eventually, every artist has to say: This is what I have to say with this piece, at this moment in my life. And then walk away. Not because it is perfect. Because it has said enough.

But My Brain Has Never Been Particularly Good at “Enough”

This is another layer for me. For much of my childhood and young adulthood, I did not understand why my mind seemed to operate differently. Like many people who grew up before ADHD was discussed as widely as it is today, behaviors that might now prompt questions about attention, executive function, impulsivity, or hyperactivity were often interpreted much more simply. Pay attention. Sit still. Stop daydreaming. Apply yourself. Finish what you started. Slow down. Why aren't you listening? You have so much potential. Those kinds of statements can become part of a child's internal vocabulary. And when there is no explanation for why certain things seem disproportionately difficult, a child tends to invent one. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I'm irresponsible. Maybe I don't try hard enough. Maybe something is wrong with the way I think.

ADHD, however, is not simply “not paying attention.” A quick online search reveals that ADHD is a condition that can affect attention, organization, time management, emotions, impulse control, and completing tasks. It affects everyone differently. That last part matters. An undiagnosed child doesn't experience himself as someone displaying a collection of clinical symptoms. He experiences life. And he wonders why some parts feel so much harder for him than for everyone else.

When Difference Looks Like Deficiency

One of the most difficult consequences of going through childhood without understanding ADHD can be the accumulation of labels. The child isn't struggling with executive functioning. He is “disorganized.”

He isn't having difficulty regulating attention. He “doesn't listen.” He isn't struggling with impulse control. He is “disruptive.” He isn't overwhelmed by tasks that require multiple organizational steps. He “never finishes anything.” Eventually other people's descriptions can become our own. That is where the damage can extend beyond unfinished homework or forgotten assignments. It can begin affecting identity. Repeatedly being corrected for behaviors you don't fully understand can create shame. You know you are capable. Sometimes you can perform extraordinarily well. Other times something seemingly simple becomes almost impossible. That inconsistency can confuse everyone. Especially you.

The Strange Contradiction of Attention

The word attention deficit can also be misleading. ADHD does not necessarily mean an absolute inability to pay attention. Attention can be inconsistent and strongly influenced by interest, novelty, stimulation, and urgency. Something uninteresting may feel almost impossible to remain engaged with. But something fascinating? Hours can disappear. That intense absorption is often described as hyperfocus. That's where my understanding of creativity becomes particularly interesting. The same mind that can struggle to remain interested in one task can become completely consumed by another. For a creative person, that can mean disappearing into a painting, photograph, design, or idea. The outside world becomes quieter. Time changes. Meals get forgotten. Hours become minutes. An idea begins branching into other ideas. One possibility becomes five. Five become twenty. Suddenly I am not merely making something. I am living inside it. That intensity can be exhilarating. But it can also make stopping incredibly difficult because there is always...one more thing.

The Creative Mind and the ADHD Mind

I am careful about romanticizing ADHD. Real challenges can come with it, and not every creative trait should be attributed to a diagnosis. But I also think it is worth examining the relationship between the way some ADHD minds experience the world and the creative process. Novelty can be stimulating. Experimentation provides novelty. Ideas can arrive rapidly. Creativity rewards unusual connections. Curiosity pulls the mind toward unexpected places. Art encourages exactly that. A classroom may ask: “What is the correct answer?” Art asks: “What do you see?” That second question can feel enormously liberating to someone who has spent years feeling slightly out of rhythm with conventional expectations. There isn't always one answer. There isn't always one route. There isn't even necessarily one destination. Suddenly thinking differently isn't automatically a disadvantage. It may be the entire point.

A Thousand Ideas and Only Twenty-Four Hours

Of course, creativity and an ADHD mind can also make complicated partners. Ideas are wonderful. Too many ideas can become overwhelming. I can get excited about something before I finish the last thing. Then another idea appears. And another. Each one feels important. Each one seems urgent. Each one whispers: “Don't forget me.” So, you start things. Paintings. Photographs. Design concepts. Writing. Projects. Experiments. Some become finished pieces. Some sit unfinished for years. Others quietly disappear. That can be frustrating because creative ambition doesn't always match executive capacity. The imagination may be moving at 100 miles per hour while organization is trying to find the car keys.

Procrastination Isn't Always Laziness

This is another area where misunderstanding ADHD can be painful. A person can desperately want to accomplish something and still struggle to begin it. From the outside, that looks like procrastination. Sometimes it is. But difficulties with task initiation, prioritization, and executive functioning can make starting surprisingly difficult, particularly when a task feels boring, overwhelming, ambiguous, or distant in its reward. Then something fascinating happens. The deadline approaches. Urgency appears. Suddenly, the brain that couldn't engage becomes intensely engaged. Three weeks of work gets attempted in three hours. Sometimes successfully. Which unfortunately teaches us: See? I work better under pressure. Maybe. Or maybe pressure finally supplied enough urgency to activate the attention the task couldn't generate earlier. Living that way can be exhausting.

Perfectionism Can Become Procrastination: Wearing Better Clothes

Artists know another trap especially well. Perfectionism. It sounds admirable. It isn't always. Perfectionism can become avoidance disguised as high standards. If something must be perfect before I show it, then I never have to risk someone seeing something imperfect. If I keep revising it, it isn't finished. If it isn't finished, it can't be judged. And if it can't be judged, it can't fail. That creates a wonderfully effective prison. The door is unlocked. But we never leave. This is why learning to declare something finished can become about much more than artistic discipline. It can become an act of vulnerability. Here it is. Not perfect. Not immune to criticism. Not necessarily the best thing I will ever make. But finished for now.

Maybe “Finished” Is the Wrong Word

The older I become, the less convinced I am that artists actually finish anything. Perhaps we release it. We stop working on it and allow it to become what it already is. That may sound like semantics, but I think the distinction matters. “Finished” sounds absolute. “Released” acknowledges that possibilities remain. I could change the painting tomorrow. But I choose not to. I could rewrite the paragraph. But I choose not to. I could edit the photograph differently. But this version says what I wanted it to say. So, I release it. There is freedom in that idea.

Art Has to Leave Us to Become Someone Else's

Something interesting happens when artwork leaves the artist. We lose control over its meaning. Someone sees something in the painting that I never consciously intended. A photograph reminds someone of their childhood. A color evokes a memory. A story means something entirely different to a reader than it meant to the writer. At that moment the work begins another life. Perhaps that is the real point of completion. Not when the artist stops adding to it. But when someone else begins receiving something from it. Art eventually has to stop being exclusively ours. Otherwise, we are just having a private conversation with ourselves.

The Unfinished Artist

One more reason I think artists struggle with the idea of completion is this: We are unfinished ourselves. The person who created something ten years ago no longer exists in the same form. Experience has changed us. Age has changed us. Success has changed us. Failure has changed us. Love has changed us. Loss has changed us. Our eyes change. Our tastes change. Our priorities change. So, when we return to old work, naturally we see things we would do differently. But that doesn't necessarily mean the old work was unfinished. It means we continued. That painting represents the artist I was then. If I made it today, I would make it differently. I should. Otherwise, what have I learned? Our old work shouldn't embarrass us. Maybe it should reassure us. It is evidence that we moved.

The Boy Who Couldn't Sit Still Became the Man Who Couldn't Stop Creating

I find something strangely beautiful in looking backward with the understanding that comes with adulthood. Characteristics that once seemed like liabilities can reveal themselves differently in another environment. Restlessness can become curiosity. Daydreaming can become imagination. Questioning can become exploration. Intensity can become passion. An unconventional thought process can become creative vision. Again, none of this erases the genuine challenges ADHD can create, nor does it mean every struggle secretly contains some magical artistic gift. Life is rarely that simple. But understanding changes the story we tell ourselves. And sometimes changing the story changes everything. Maybe the child who couldn't stop looking out the window wasn't seeing nothing. Maybe he was seeing something else.

So, When Is It Finished?

After all these years, I still don't have a scientific formula. Maybe nobody does. But I have developed a better question. Instead of asking: “Is this perfect?” I try to ask: “Have I said what I came here to say?” If the answer is yes, perhaps it is time to put down the brush. Step away from the computer. Stop adjusting the photograph. Stop moving the type. Stop rewriting the sentence. Sign the corner. Let it go because there will always be another possibility. Another idea. Another version. Another painting. Another photograph. Another story. Another blank canvas waiting for whatever comes next. And perhaps that is why an artist's work is never truly done. Not because every painting remains unfinished. But because the artist does. We continue observing. Questioning. Changing. Learning. Failing. Experimenting. Reinventing. Creating. The goal was never to reach some imaginary place where there is nothing left to improve. The goal was to keep becoming someone capable of seeing something tomorrow that we cannot see today. A painting can be finished. Maybe a photograph can be finished. Maybe a story can be finished. But the person creating them? Hopefully never. The artwork eventually needs a period.

The artist should always remain an unfinished sentence.

— William Leslie

Artist • Photographer • Designer

Aquablue Images

BLOG - Courage to Keep Writing ARTSignature: 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

The Courage to Keep Creating: How Criticism Can Strengthen—or Silence—a Creative Person

I think I would rather you call me ugly or insult my mother than say harsh things about my art.

Not really, of course.

Maybe I felt that way when I was younger, but age has made my skin—although considerably more wrinkled—extremely thick. Time has a way of doing that. If we are fortunate, the years soften our need for approval while strengthening our belief in who we are. Eventually, we begin to understand that criticism is not fatal. Unpleasant, perhaps. Painful, certainly. But survivable. For a young artist, however, harsh criticism can make or break the creative spirit.

I remember receiving criticism about my style, my subject matter, my use of color—everything. Someone always seemed eager to explain what I had done wrong, what I should have done differently, or what they would have done if the artwork had belonged to them. But it did not belong to them. It belonged to me.

That is what makes art criticism so complicated. Art is not simply an object an artist manufactures and places on a wall. It comes from somewhere much deeper. It carries pieces of our memories, fears, questions, passions, and experiences. Even when the subject appears simple, something personal is woven into it. Every brushstroke, photograph, design, or carefully chosen color contains a small piece of the person who created it. When someone rejects the work, it can feel as though they are rejecting the artist.

Art is subjective, of course. One person’s masterpiece is another person’s trash liner. A painting that moves someone to tears may leave someone else completely unmoved. A photograph one person finds haunting and beautiful may be dismissed by another as dark or uncomfortable. The very color that makes one viewer feel alive may remind another of something they would rather forget. The artist has no control over any of that.

We cannot control what another person sees when they look at our work. We cannot control what they feel—or whether they feel anything at all. We cannot force someone to understand our intentions, appreciate our choices, or recognize the personal history behind what we created. The only thing we can control is how we respond. That lesson took me years to learn.

When we are young, criticism can become louder than our own creative voice. One careless remark can follow us back into the studio and stand behind us while we work. It can cause us to question every decision. We begin choosing safer colors, safer subjects, and safer ideas. We stop creating what feels true and start creating what we hope will be approved. Little by little, the work may become more acceptable—but less alive. That is how criticism can silence an artist. It doesn't always make us stop creating completely. Sometimes it does something far more subtle: it convinces us to stop creating honestly.

It takes courage to make something from such a deeply personal place and allow others to see it. Every time an artist shares a piece of work, there is an element of exposure. We are revealing something we may not know how to express in ordinary language. We are saying, “This is what I saw. This is what I felt. This is the way the world looked from where I was standing.” There is no guarantee that anyone will understand. There is also no guarantee that they will be kind. But courage is not only required to share the work. It also takes courage to keep going after the work has been criticized. An artist must eventually choose: become reluctant to create from that vulnerable, deeply personal place, or accept the risk and keep returning to it.

I have come to believe that a strong reaction—even a negative one—can show the work reached someone. Something from your deeply personal place touched something in theirs. Perhaps it brought them joy. Perhaps it made them uncomfortable. Perhaps it challenged what they believed or awakened something they had buried. Their reaction may not be the one you wanted, but the work crossed the distance between two human beings and caused something to happen. Isn’t that one of the reasons we create?

Artists often say they do not care what anyone thinks. I am not sure that is entirely true. If we genuinely did not care, we might never show the work to anyone. Somewhere inside us is a desire to communicate, connect, and be seen. We hope our work will make someone pause for a moment. We hope it creates a feeling, starts a conversation, or leaves an impression that lingers after the viewer has walked away.

Positive reactions encourage us. Negative reactions challenge us. Constructive criticism can teach us. Even harsh criticism can strengthen us—if we refuse to allow it to define us. But indifference is different. No reaction may be worse than criticism because indifference suggests that the work never made contact. It passed before someone’s eyes without ever reaching the heart, the mind, or the imagination. I would rather create something that provokes debate than something so polished, safe and predictable that it leaves no impression at all. That does not mean I should ignore every criticism. There is a difference between cruelty and thoughtful critique. An artist should stay humble enough to listen, wise enough to recognize useful insight, and confident enough to discard opinions with no value. Thick skin should protect the creative spirit, not prevent the artist from growing.

Criticism can become a tool rather than a weapon. It can force us to examine our choices, clarify our intentions, and decide what truly matters in our work. Sometimes it exposes a weakness. Sometimes it confirms that we have taken a meaningful risk. And sometimes it simply reminds us that not everyone is our audience. That is all right. You cannot please everyone, so why try?

Art should never be reduced to style over substance. Style may attract attention, but substance gives the work its soul. Technique can impress the eye, but truth is what reaches the heart. The artist’s responsibility is not to create something that everyone will like. It is to create something honest—something with enough life inside it to risk being misunderstood. Age has not made criticism disappear. It has simply taught me where to place it. I listen. I consider it. I take what helps me grow, and I leave the rest behind. Then I return to the work.

Because the greatest victory over harsh criticism is not a clever response or a thicker skin; it is refusing to be silenced. It is creating the next piece.

— William Leslie

Artist • Photographer • Designer

Aquablue Images

BLOG - Book I Never Finished ART

Next year marks the 20th anniversary of the day I married my best friend, my partner, my muse, my love, my soul mate. My everything. My completion. Twenty years. It seems impossible when I say it out loud. There are moments when it feels as though we just met, and others when I can barely remember what my life looked like before there was a “we”. I have done absolutely nothing in my life deserving of the blessing God has given me in Rosemarie. I don't know why He chose to be so generous with me. I just know that He was. And even if I were willing to entertain the possibility that my wife isn't perfect—which I'm not—it is undeniable that she is perfect for me. Perfectly, wonderfully, inexplicably perfect for me.

People often ask us how we met.

It seems every great couple is supposed to have a great beginning story. Some people meet in high school. Some are introduced by friends. Some bump into each other in a grocery store or reach for the same book in a bookstore. We have a pretty good story ourselves. And God is at the center of every bit of it. Because how else do two imperfect people, living halfway across the country from one another, somehow find each other at exactly the right moment? I don't believe in coincidence. I believe God brought us together by His grace and in His perfect timing. More importantly, I believe He brought us together at precisely the moment when we were finally capable of recognizing and appreciating the gift He was giving us.

Chapter One: Before We Found Each Other

Around the time we met, Rosemarie and I were both rebuilding our lives after failed relationships. Maybe that's one of the most important parts of our story. Neither of us were frantically searching for the perfect person. We were spending time looking inward instead. We were working on our own imperfections, trying to understand ourselves a little better and becoming the people we needed to become. There is something to be said for that. Sometimes we spend so much time asking God to send us the right person that perhaps we forget to ask Him to help us become the right person.

We didn't know each other yet. But God knew both of us. He knew where I was. He knew where she was. And He knew what was coming. Among other things, I am an artist. Rosemarie is a writer. And as "luck" would have it—and by luck, of course, I mean God—Rosemarie had written a children's book and needed someone to illustrate it. At the time, she was navigating that ancient artifact from the early days of social media known as MySpace.

Yes, MySpace.

For those too young to remember, there really was a world before Facebook, Instagram and TikTok. Somewhere among millions of profiles, pictures, songs that automatically played whether you wanted them to or not, and everyone's carefully curated "Top 8," something caused Rosemarie to stop at my page. She heard my song. I do not remember what my song was back then, but by now, it is surely a classic oldie. She saw my artwork. She contacted me. And what began essentially as a job interview slowly became conversations that had very little to do with illustrating a children's book.

We talked. And talked. And talked some more. About art. About writing. About life. About disappointment. About dreams. About faith. About where we had been and, eventually, where we hoped we were going. There is a point in some relationships when conversation stops feeling like the process of getting to know somebody and begins feeling strangely like remembering someone you've somehow always known. That's what happened with us. The miles between Florida and Oklahoma didn't disappear, of course. They just began to matter less. Eventually, a children's book project somehow culminated in me packing up my life and moving from Oklahoma to Florida.

That was one hell of a job interview.

Chapter Two: Happily Ever After

I suppose this is where the "Happily Ever After" portion of the story began. There was, however, one small problem. I never finished illustrating Rosemarie's children's book. Life happened. Our life happened. We fell in love. We built a home. We built a marriage. We accumulated memories, photographs, inside jokes, triumphs, disappointments, laughter, tears (happy and sad) and all of those seemingly ordinary moments that eventually become the story of a life together. The book that had brought us together quietly disappeared into the background. Years passed. Then more years. The manuscript moved with us through life, occasionally resurfacing before disappearing again into a drawer, a box or a pile of things we promised ourselves we'd eventually get around to. Apparently, my turnaround time on illustration projects is somewhere in the neighborhood of two decades. Rosemarie has been remarkably patient with her illustrator.

Chapter Three: And Then God Winked

Recently, we were having lunch with some friends when the familiar question came up again. "So, how did you two meet?" We told the story. MySpace. The writer in Florida. The artist in Oklahoma. The messages. The conversations. The unlikely connection. The move. The marriage. And, of course, the children's book I never finished. We laughed about it. Later that same day, something happened.

I came across the manuscript.

There it was. Familiar. Tattered. Twenty years older. Waiting. Now, you can call that a coincidence if you'd like. I won't. I've lived long enough to recognize that God doesn't always announce Himself with thunder. Sometimes He whispers. Sometimes He gently nudges. Sometimes He places something directly in your path that you've walked past a hundred times before and, for reasons you can't explain, this time you see it.

Although I don't believe in coincidences, I do believe in God's many "mini" blessings. Those little moments that might seem insignificant by themselves but become something much larger when viewed from a distance. Finding that manuscript on the very day we'd been telling the story of how it brought us together felt like one of those moments. It felt like God saying, you know, you really should finish this. So, I did.

Chapter Four: Twenty Years Late

I picked up the manuscript again, but I wasn't the same artist who had first agreed to illustrate it. Twenty years had changed me. I had lived more. Loved more. Lost more. Learned more. My art had changed because I had changed. And sitting down to finally create those illustrations, I realized I wasn't merely finishing an old project. I was revisiting the beginning of our story. Every character I drew carried me back to those first conversations. Every page reminded me of the woman who had taken a chance on an artist halfway across the country. Every illustration was connected, however indirectly, to a decision that changed the entire course of my life. Had Rosemarie never written that book, she would never have needed an illustrator. Had she not gone looking for one, perhaps she wouldn't have been on MySpace that day. Had she not stopped on my page, she wouldn't have seen my artwork.

Had she not sent that first message...

Well, there are some roads I don't particularly enjoy imagining. Because that unfinished little children's book became the doorway through which the greatest blessing of my life walked. Maybe that's why it wasn't supposed to be finished twenty years ago. Maybe its first purpose wasn't to be published. Maybe its first purpose was simply to bring two people together. And once it had accomplished that, perhaps God was content to let it sit quietly on a shelf until we were ready for its next chapter. There is something beautiful about finishing it now. The young writer who originally handed me those words became my wife. The illustrator she hired became her husband. And the manuscript that once represented the possibility of a professional collaboration became an artifact from the beginning of our life together. It isn't just a children's book anymore. It's part of our history.

Chapter Five: The Better Story

Looking back, I've realized something else. I thought Rosemarie had hired me to illustrate her story. I had no idea God was illustrating ours. The lines weren't always where I would have put them. The colors weren't always ones I would have chosen. There were pages I didn't understand while we were living them. There were unexpected turns in the composition. There were shadows. There was light. There were revisions. But slowly, year after year, a picture emerged. Us. Not perfect people. Not a perfect life. But two people perfectly suited for one another, doing their best to walk through this life side by side. Maybe that's what a soul mate really is. Not someone who arrives without flaws, but someone whose hand somehow fits yours while the two of you navigate them together. Someone who sees the unfinished parts of you and stays. Someone who celebrates the masterpiece and loves the rough sketches. Someone who reminds you who you are when you've temporarily forgotten. Someone who makes home less about geography and more about presence.

For me, that person is Rosemarie. She is my best friend. My partner. My muse. My love. My soul mate. My everything. My completion. And nearly twenty years into this adventure, I'm still amazed that God looked at the enormous map between Oklahoma and Florida, looked at two people rebuilding their lives, looked at an unfinished children's manuscript and an artist's MySpace page and somehow connected all the dots.

No, I don't believe in coincidence. I believe in grace. I believe in timing. I believe in those countless little "mini" blessings God scatters along our path that often don't reveal their significance until years later. And I believe that sometimes the things we think we failed to finish aren't unfinished at all. Maybe they're simply waiting for the right time. The children's book is finally illustrated. Twenty years late. I suppose Rosemarie could have hired an illustrator who was a little timelier in completing her project. Thankfully, she has been very understanding about the delay. And now that the book is finally complete, we can hopefully spend another twenty years or so getting it published.

I'm in no particular hurry.

— William Leslie

Artist • Photographer • Designer

Aquablue Images