Behind the Brush: Rituals for Beginning a Commission

When beginning a commission, I usually start by resetting the studio—not just to tidy, but to create a sense of openness and alignment. I clean off surfaces, make room for the large panel I’ll be working on, and take inventory of materials. If supplies are missing, I order what I’ll need.

This early rhythm is both practical and energetic. As I wipe down tables or check brush conditions, something else is already stirring—the quiet formation of the painting in my mind. I’m thinking through stages and materials, letting the layers begin to unfold internally before I ever touch the panel.

In any studio I can call my own, there’s usually a small altar. Sometimes it’s as simple as a tealight and a vessel for flowers. At other times, it includes a small Ganesha sculpture—both a personal muse and a traditional presence at the beginning of creative ventures.

Lighting the candle at the start of a session, and extinguishing it at the end, helps me mark the time and maintain a subtle state of awareness. It’s not performative—it’s devotional, in the quietest sense. A way to remember why I’m painting.

When it’s time to prepare the panel, I lay it flat on a dropcloth—often reorganizing my space to accommodate this phase. The gesso I use is a traditional formula: gypsum powder and rabbit skin glue. I mix it in warm water until it becomes a gel, then gently heat it in a water bath until it liquefies and can be brushed on in layers.

This chalky white surface becomes the foundation for my wax-based paints to absorb into.

Symbolically, this process is like creating a clean slate—a fresh, receptive surface where something new can land.

By the time I’m gessoing the panel, I’ve usually worked closely with the client to develop a clear visual plan. Through our conversations and sketch phase, I’ve gained a sense of the layers of creation the painting will require.

Over the years, this mapping has become internalized. Unless a project calls for something entirely new, I carry a quiet, practiced knowledge of how the painting will be constructed—from composition to materials to execution.

And still, I leave space for the unexpected.

Before painting, I light the altar candle, connect inward, and orient to the inspiration behind the piece.

I usually begin with a clear image or concept—a plan, but not a prescription. Like a riverbed that guides the creative flow without restraining it. Sometimes the painting follows that plan. Sometimes the water overflows and reshapes the course entirely.

This is the tension I love most in the creative process: the dance between vision and emergence.

The most important “first step” isn’t always the brush. It’s the inner clarity—a sense of what the painting is really about, what it wants to express, and why I’m the one to make it. That clarity becomes the north star for every decision, every mark.

Starting can bring a flood of emotion: enthusiasm, resistance, excitement, even uncertainty. But mostly, there’s a deep readiness. A joy in seeing what will unfold.

Sometimes that readiness comes immediately. Other times, it takes years—for a concept to mature in me, or for me to grow enough to meet it.