Day. 29: Treading Lightly: What Happened When I Revisited an Old Abstract Painting

When I opened my gallery in 2021 (wasn’t that a lifetime ago?), I brought with me an old abstract painting I’d made years earlier. It was one of two in a series. Its companion sold, but this one stayed with me. Over the years, I discounted it a few times, hung it in different places, and eventually moved it to the back room of the gallery—the quiet, somber place where paintings go to wait. Or die. Too much?

I kept it for nearly a decade because I always felt there was something unfinished about it. Every time I passed it, I’d give it a small nod and say, “later.”

Later finally came today.

Returning to an Old Abstract Painting

After weeks of painting small during my 31 in 31 challenge, I was ready to move again—to use my whole arm, to feel less confined. This piece isn’t massive, but its medium size gave me the room I needed after working on such a small scale all month.

I also let go of the geometric patterns and shapes I’ve been exploring recently. This painting is all blobs and imperfection. No straight lines. No uniform shapes. These are the marks that made me first fall in love with painting with a palette knife—the kind that feel more discovered than designed.

Revisiting this old abstract painting wasn’t about correcting it or making it fit who I am now. It was about giving myself permission to respond honestly, without a plan.

The Peacock as a Return, Not a Plan

The peacock arrived without intention.

It’s a figure I used to paint often in my early years as an artist—back when I was a single mom with a toddler at my feet and was trying to figure out how to build a life around making art. I think, back then, I was borrowing confidence from it. Painting it felt like a quiet act of faith.

The peacock doesn’t fan its feathers. It doesn’t perform. It simply walks.

As if to say: I’m figuring it out as I go. I could put on a show (or a fit)—but for now, I’ll tread lightly. It’s been a rocky road.

Revisiting this painting wasn’t about fixing something from the past. It was about listening—to the work, to memory, and to the quieter confidence that comes from staying with something long enough to meet it again.

What might change if you allowed yourself to return to something unfinished—not to perfect it, but to meet it exactly where you are now?