Painting en plein air puts me on the edge of chaos every single time I go out. It’s uncomfortable—even terrifying—and yet, it’s the only place where something real can happen. I know that probably sounds dramatic, but it’s true. This is a weird thing to try to explain, but I’ll do my best.

So, let’s talk about chaos. Here’s how Merriam-Webster defines it:
Chaos — complete confusion and disorder; a state in which behavior and events are not controlled by anything.

That tracks. When I paint outside, I feel completely out of control. I feel like nothing is stable, everything’s shifting, and there’s nothing to hold onto. It’s overwhelming, but somehow—paradoxically—it’s also where I feel closest to something true.

Mary Shelley once said, “Invention… does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos.” Yes. That.

Nothing new comes from safety. If we always stay in the familiar, we just recreate what we already know. It’s only when we step outside of that—into the unknown, into the mess—that we get even a chance to tap into something bigger. Something alive.

When you’re out there with wind on your face, sun moving faster than your brush can follow, and a thousand distractions clawing at your focus—that’s the edge. And if you can hold yourself there, just long enough, something magical might happen. But it’s a fight every time.

I’ve painted plenty of plein air studies. I know how to pack my gear, which surfaces I like. It’s not about logistics. It’s that moment right before I start, when I step outside and feel like I’m about to get swallowed by uncertainty. I hate that feeling. I hate feeling out of control.

The truth is, I like my studio. I like my calm. I like knowing what to expect. In there, I can breathe. I can think. I can hear myself.

And that can be enough. Honestly, there are plenty of artists who stay in that space—making gorgeous work, selling paintings, teaching, exhibiting—and they’re doing great. That is a totally valid path.

But here’s what I’ve realized: even those artists, the ones who seem to effortlessly toss brushstrokes on canvas and create beauty—they’ve been to the edge. Maybe not out in the wilderness with a backpack and tripod, but in their own way. They’ve faced their own chaos.

And for me? Plein air painting is that chaos. Every single time.

I’m a perfectionist. I like plans, I like control, I like knowing where the edges are. But when I go outside to paint, none of that applies. I can’t rely on anything. The light’s different, the scene’s changed, I forgot something, I can’t find a composition, I’m suddenly doubting everything. My brain goes foggy. My chest gets tight. And nine times out of ten, I want to pack up and go back to the studio.

But lately, I’ve gotten more aware of it. More conscious, I guess. I see what’s happening. I feel myself reaching for the safe choice. I hear the voice that says, “This is stupid. Go home.” And I’ve started choosing not to listen. Or at least, to pause before I do.

Because here’s the thing—I’m tired of giving into fear. I’m tired of hiding behind perfectionism and calling it “standards.” I’m starting to realize that all this resistance, all this panic, it’s pointing me somewhere important.

So I’ve made a decision. I’m going to keep showing up, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable. I’m going to go outside and paint, again and again, until I can find my breath in the middle of the storm. Even if that breath is shaky. Even if it’s not graceful.

Because honestly, I don’t think this is just about painting. I think this is about living. Chaos is part of life. We can’t control most of it. So if I can find a way to stay grounded when everything feels unsteady out there on the seaside, maybe I can do that in other parts of my life too.

And maybe this is where the real art comes from. Not the kind that’s just pretty—but the kind that’s honest, and alive, and human. The kind that’s connected to something deeper than me.

I don’t have it figured out. I’m still working through it, still battling my resistance, still trying to breathe when the wind kicks up and my setup nearly blows away. But I’m showing up. I’m learning. And I think—I think—this might be where the growth happens.

Maybe that’s what “talent” really is. Not just being good at something, but being willing to step into the unknown over and over again. Willing to be scared, and still paint. Willing to not know, and still create.

So if you’ve been stuck, or scared, or avoiding your own version of the edge—know this: you’re not alone. But also, maybe it’s time to lean in. Even a little.

Because yeah, it’s messy. Yeah, it’s hard. But, that’s where the real juice is.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where the magic lives, too.