Completion doesn't arrive; it's chosen

When I was young, I believed completion would come to me from somewhere. That at some moment, everything would fall into place, and a signal would sound, telling me, "This is good."

But in reality, such clear signs are rare. Could I
deepen the color a bit more? Might one
more stroke shift the balance?
That temptation always lingers quietly.

That's why I've come to believe completion isn't something that "arrives," but something you "choose." Somewhere inside, you draw a line. You decide not to add any more. That decision is what allows the work to stand as a single entity in the world.

Deciding on an ending also means closing off possibilities. It's letting go of a future where it might have become even better. Yet, simultaneously, it's also the responsibility required to send the work out into the world. If I kept it with me forever, the painting would remain eternally unfinished, trapped inside me.

Deciding on an ending is not about giving up. Rather, it is closer to a quiet courage—a belief in what is best at that moment.

Ending to leave room

I sometimes feel a sense of suffocation in a painting I've overworked. A state where everything is explained, everything is filled in. There is a sense of security there, but at the same time, it leaves little room for the viewer to enter.

I believe deciding to end is also a way of protecting that space.
Adding one more color might stabilize the composition.
Drawing one more line might clarify the meaning.

But I deliberately stop.
I leave ambiguity. I
leave parts unfinished, just as they are.

That creates space for the viewer's time to enter. It creates room for
interpretation and emotion to quietly seep in.

In music, it might be akin to ending not by striking the final chord forcefully, but by dissolving it into the reverberation. I often listen to classical and jazz, and I find myself moved more by endings that seem to fade into the air than by intense finales. Because they leave behind a sense of "there is more to come," rather than a declaration of "it's over."

It's the same with paintings. Rather than complete closure, leaving a hint of incompleteness seems to breathe longer.

Life's Small Full Stops

It's not just about creation. Every day, we live by deciding on various "endings."
I'll stop here for today. I'll let
go of this relationship
. I'll put this way of thinking to rest for now.

Endings carry a certain loneliness. Yet, it is precisely because there are endings that new beginnings are born. Like a new white canvas rising beside the finished one.

If we couldn't decide on endings, we'd remain stuck in the same place forever. Holding onto unfinished business, unable to move forward. That's why choosing to draw a line at a certain point is also a choice to propel ourselves forward.

Even now, I hesitate with every creation. Is
it truly okay to end here? But in the end
, I take a quiet, deep breath and set down the brush. In that instant, the canvas finally leaves my hands and stands up as its own entity.

Deciding to end is believing in the work.
And believing in yourself.

What "endings" have you decided on lately? If
you're still holding onto something, gently drawing a line under it might not be such a bad idea. An ending is never cold; it's a quiet demarcation that creates space for what comes next.