It turns out you can have too much of a good thing. Who knew?

I like my recent multiple mark paintings. They have achieved a reasonable degree of success, but have done so without scaling the heights I had hoped they might. Composition, which was expected to be chief among potential problems, actually turned out to be one of the most significant positives for me and promises other potential offshoots of interest. It transpires that the main issue has been multiplication, specifically of the painted mark. Based on the paintings I have made so far the larger the number of marks on the canvas the less satisfying the finished work is likely to be. It's far from set in stone, but it does appear to stand even within a relatively small test group.

My guess is that success in making these paintings relies in great part upon visual tension. That straightforward composition of the single mark paintings is most likely the aspect that gives them their quality. Multiple marks offer a freer overall appearance, but with each added stroke the value of those already present is reduced and individuals are lost as the group grows. One cannot see the trees for the wood because the draw is no longer to inspect and consider one single stroke on its own. The haphazard pattern born of accumulation dominates its composite parts. This is not to say that the paintings are unpleasant to look at, but to my mind they aren't as interesting as the single mark paintings. Perhaps the familiarity of a cheerful spotty pattern, which they move toward as they get busier, lends an easy everyday quality and whilst there's nothing wrong with that as such, my own mild disatisfaction with them relative to other works is a point worthy of consideration.

I believe another significant part of the reason for this response is that the theory can be applied to the manufacture as well as the appearance of the finished article. This is an assessment based on reflection rather than recollection as I honestly can't remember my exact approach at the time, but I believe that knowing multiple actions were to be made could have damaged my ability to focus on each one individually. I certainly enjoyed making the paintings, but as I made each mark was I already thinking about the next? Was each moment devalued by anticipation? It's perfectly plausible, but impossible to be sure of in hindsight. Now that this seed has been planted I can't go back and repeat the process without the knowledge affecting the outcome, but perhaps new paintings will benefit from my increased awarenes of the possibility.

I have had another encounter with excess recently. It came during a conversation with a friend who's a keen writer and practices his passion as and when he can. Not long ago he took advantage of a rare opportunity to reduce his hours at work in order to give more time to his writing - who wouldn't? Initially the result was a lot more words put down and progress accelerated, but after a period the impetus began to wane and less of his time was spent at the keyboard. It's a problem with which I am very familiar, but having been relieved of this particular burden some time ago it took his example to remind me. There was a time when I could paint more or less when I pleased. I barely made a thing. I watched a lot of TV safe in the knowledge that today's banana of opportunity would be just as ripe tomorrow. I didn't have to go at it like a competitive eater because I had all the time in the world. Now that the opposite is true every moment available is gratefully and gainfully employed devouring every thing in reach.

The clear and cliched conclusion then is that less can be more and despite the frustration of being unable to work on what you love for long periods there is a case to be made for restriction. Maybe application and attention, passion and commitment too, exist in finite amounts. Perhaps they are beasts that thrive in small spaces and revel in a degree of discipline. I've made greater effort, done more work and enjoyed it all far more snatching fifteen minutes here or an hour there than I ever did dawdling my way through a day at the studio. Value can be ascribed to all the time spent frustratedly striving to reach those moments of brief indulgence by virtue of how keenly and enthusiastically they are grasped, vigourously utilised and should the results be successful, more deeply satisfying than if we'd had all the bananas in the world. Wishing things were different may just be a naive pursuit of one's own downfall.