There is something I have noticed about myself over the years. I can prepare endlessly. I can think, sketch, plan, and arrange. But the moment I stand in front of a blank canvas or a clean sheet of paper, something shifts. It tightens. A white surface carries expectation. It asks for intention. For clarity. For the right first mark. And that pressure can quietly shut things down.
Monotype changed that for me. It still does, every time I step into the studio.
What monotype actually is
If you are not familiar with it, monotype sits somewhere between painting and printmaking. I apply ink or paint to a smooth plate, usually acrylic on plexiglass, and then transfer it onto paper or canvas by pressing them together. The result is never exact. It shifts. The pressure, the ink, the moisture in the paper all play a role. You cannot fully predict it. That unpredictability is the point. It is what opens everything up.
Monotype does not ask me to be certain. It asks me to begin.
The problem with the blank canvas
White canvas syndrome is real. Most artists know it. Even if they do not name it.
It is that paralysis when the surface feels too open. Too full of possibility. Strangely, having too many options can stop you from doing anything at all. Monotype removes that problem. By the time I pull the first print, the surface already has something on it. Marks. Texture. Edges. Accidents. It has history.
The work has already started.
From there, I do not need to initiate. I respond. To what is there. To what is forming. To what the surface asks for. That shift is everything. It is where the real work happens for me.
Mixed media and the monotype as foundation
My practice is mixed media at its core. I work with acrylic, thread, gold leaf, and layered mark making. But monotype is almost always the starting point. It sets the tone. It brings in movement, depth, and complexity. Then the other materials respond to that.
I think of it as a kind of excavation. It does not finish the work. It creates a condition to work from. Something with enough resistance to push against. That push and pull is where meaning starts to form.
Thread behaves differently on a surface like this. It does not sit on top of blank space. It moves through layers. It catches. It connects. Gold leaf does the same. It does not feel decorative. It feels like something revealed. Like something that was already there.
Monotype gives the work a past before I have even started thinking about its future.
Play, experiment, and the path to flow
One of the quieter shifts in working this way is that it brings me back to play. Not in a light or careless way. In a real sense. Experimenting without needing a fixed outcome. When I know the print will surprise me, I stop trying to control everything. I stop protecting the work. I let it move. That is often where flow happens. That state where you are fully inside the process. Where time drops away and the work carries you.
I cannot force that state. But I have learnt what helps.
A surface that already has life.
A process that rewards response, not control.
A willingness to not know.
Monotype gives me that. Which is why almost everything I make begins there. Ink on a plate. And a moment of not quite knowing.
Why this matters for collectors
If you collect my work, or are thinking about it, this is important. Every piece holds its process. The layers are not decorative. They are part of the structure. They record a conversation between what happened by chance and what was done by hand.
The monotype underneath is not a background. It is the beginning. It is also what makes each work singular. Monotype does not repeat. Even from the same plate, no two prints are the same. Each piece could only happen once. In that exact way. On that day. In that state of not knowing.
That matters to me. I hope it matters to you too.
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