When the Canvas Goes Quiet

Writing Through the Silence of Painter’s Block

In my last blog, I explored what it meant to find flow as an artist—the ritual, the rhythm, the surrender to something bigger than myself. But what happens when that flow disappears? Not just for a week or a month, but for years?

This post is my attempt to answer that question—not with a neat conclusion, but with a trail of breadcrumbs. It’s a reflection on painter’s block, yes—but also on identity, evolution, and the quiet truth that sometimes our art changes form before we even notice.

Because even when the canvas is blank, we’re still creating—we’re just doing it in ways that don’t always look like art.

The Pause That Started in a Time of Pause

I first noticed I couldn’t paint during the lockdown. Oddly enough, I wasn’t miserable about being home. I actually enjoyed it. I spent hours tending to my garden and soaking up every moment with my family. We were healthy, we were safe, and for that, I was deeply grateful.

Even when I wasn’t painting, I was still creating—tending to the garden, feeding the roots, and letting color bloom in a different way. © 2025 Bedouin Dreams

At the time, I had just started a new job that required constant creative thinking. By the end of the day, I didn’t have the brain juice left to pour into a canvas. Even though my brushes dried up, my creativity didn’t. I shifted that energy into my surroundings—finishing our bathroom floor, painting walls, reworking corners of our home to feel more alive.

I truly believe that as creatives, we never stop. We just evolve in nonlinear paths. My brush has been dry for years, but the desire to create—to express something deeper—never left.

The Ritual No Longer Worked

There was a moment I thought I was ready to paint again. I had the time. The space. The longing. So I did everything I used to do to get in the zone—burned incense, played the music that once lit something inside me. I prepared my space with care, the way I always had.

And then I sat there for two hours… staring at a blank canvas.

Nothing came. The pigment I had mixed and laid out slowly dried beside me, untouched.

Eventually, I turned the music off and sat in silence. Frustration came first. Then anger. Then something heavier—defeat. I used to feel euphoric when I painted, like I was channeling something unnameable. That session? It felt like a door had closed. And no matter how many times I knocked, no one answered.

Sometimes the greatest blocks are internal. The ritual no longer worked not because I lacked discipline—but because I was evolving beyond it.

At one point, I said out loud, “I’m done.” I was ready to give everything away. The brushes. The easel. The canvas. The tubes of paint that had become more like artifacts than tools.

But my son—twelve years old at the time—simply said, “Don’t. Just take a break. For however long you need.”

That one sentence saved something in me.

I stepped back—not out of avoidance, but out of reverence for whatever transformation was taking place inside me. Kids have a way of seeing the truth before we’re ready to speak it ourselves.

Becoming an Artist in a New Medium

Now my son is almost sixteen, and I still haven’t picked up a brush.

But I’ve been creating all along—just not in the way I expected.

Whether it was through work, home projects, or helping others bring their visions to life, I’ve stayed in motion. Still, something felt missing: the personal, the private, the sacred practice that used to be mine.

Not long ago, I was at a family gathering where a friend shared that he had started a blog. It was casual, just a quick update—but something about that moment struck me. Blogging was something I had thought about years ago but never fully pursued.

That night, I went home and started writing my first blog post.

It wasn’t about art, not directly. But it was real. Honest. Unfiltered. I didn’t have to run it by anyone. I just… wrote. And in doing so, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: creative freedom.

Breaking from expectation, I found freedom in writing—raw, unfiltered, and entirely my own.

It felt a lot like painting used to feel.

So I kept going. One post led to another. And now writing has become my brush, my canvas, my way of understanding the world—and myself—while I wait for the next wave of visual work to rise.

The Internal Dialogue That Writing Unlocked

In these blog entries, I’ve begun to process something I couldn’t quite name before: grief.

Not just grief over not painting, but grief over losing the part of myself that knew how to say something without words. The part of me that could move through shape and color and find a kind of healing.

But writing has helped me mourn—and more than that, rebuild.

Growing up, I never really called myself an artist. I felt like I hadn’t earned that title. Maybe it was imposter syndrome. Maybe it was conditioning. All I knew was that I wasn’t “one of them.”

But years into this pause, something shifted. These written reflections have become mirrors. And through them, I’ve finally been able to say it—I am an artist.

Not because I make something every day. Not because I sell or exhibit work. But because this is how I process the world. It’s who I am. Even when the output changes, the core remains.

I’ve stopped judging myself for not producing. I’ve stopped measuring my worth by productivity. I’m chopping down the overgrowth in my mind—the thick beliefs that kept the light out—and slowly, I’m letting something new take root.

I don’t know exactly what this forest will become. But I trust that something is growing.

What I Miss (And What I'm Waiting For)

What I miss most isn’t the outcome—it’s the journey.

I miss the light. The way I used to digest visual energy through movement and mark-making. I miss the space that painting carved out for me to work through something I couldn’t articulate any other way.

Each piece used to represent a stage in my mental forest.
Was I lost in the shadows? Climbing the canopy? Could I see the sky, or was it all branches?

Each piece I once created marked where I stood in my internal forest—sometimes in shadow, sometimes searching for sky.

That’s what my paintings were: maps of where I was.

Now, I’m walking that forest in a new way—pausing, observing, documenting with words instead of brushstrokes. And slowly, I’m accepting that I don’t need to force my way to the edge of the canvas. When I’m ready, I’ll arrive.

That first mark will come when it’s supposed to. Not a second sooner.

If You're in the Same Place, Ask Yourself This

You might be where I was—or where I still am. Staring at a blank canvas. Feeling the ache but not the movement. If that’s you, I offer not answers, but questions. Ones that helped me turn inward, soften the tension, and eventually hear the quiet voice of creativity again.

1. What if this isn’t a block… but a transition?
What if your creative self isn’t broken—but in revision?

Pay attention to your internal dialogue. Would you say the things you say to yourself… to a friend? To someone you love?
If not, then why are you saying them to yourself?
Changing that inner voice might just unlock something new.

2. What forms of creation have you dismissed as “not real art”?
Even a beautifully cooked meal can be a masterpiece. The joy you feel when someone bites into it—that’s a connection. That’s creation. And it counts.

3. Are your rituals still serving you—or are they echoes of an earlier version of you?
Sometimes we outgrow our routines. Try rearranging your space, using a different medium, or creating in a new environment. Even a small shift can rewire a stuck mindset.

4. What would your art say if it could write you a letter?
This exercise helped me so much. Let your creativity speak. Maybe it misses you. Maybe it wants you to know it hasn’t left—you’ve just changed. Let the letter guide you back.

5. What would it look like to make something… just for now?
Grab a pencil. A crayon. A napkin. Make something small and silly. Remember what it felt like to create before expectations.

6. What are you being asked to sit with, rather than escape from?
List out all the emotions you're carrying. Which ones pull you in? Sit with them. Let one become your next piece—no matter what it looks like.

7. Can you honor the silence as part of your creative cycle?
Maybe this season is a fast. A quieting. But creativity is still alive. That meal, that new room layout, that thriving plant—that’s art, too.

What Comes Next?

This block—this long silence—hasn’t been wasted. It’s been a cocoon. A place of reformation.

Honestly? I don’t know.
And I’ve made peace with that.

I feel the return to the brush approaching. I can sense it. But I don’t know what it will look like. Will my color palette change? Will my work shift into something I’ve never done before?

I think it might.

And that’s part of what excites me. This block—this long silence—hasn't been wasted time. It’s been a cocoon. A place of reformation.

So this blog—this entry—is for me as much as it is for you.
It’s a love letter to the version of myself who felt lost.
A reminder to all the artists in hibernation that not producing doesn’t mean not becoming.

If you’re facing your own creative block, I hope something here helped you feel less alone.
If anything resonated, I’d love to hear about it.

And if nothing else—just know this:

The silence is not the end.
It’s just a different kind of brushstroke.