Sincerity Over Speed

July 25, 2024


In the world of art, there’s a quiet, often invisible dance between the labor of creation and the intuition that tells us when something is complete. It’s not the number of hours logged or the amount of material used that defines the artist’s journey, but rather a deeper, almost wordless knowing, a moment when the work seems to speak back, saying, “I’m done.” This is where the idea of sincerity over speed takes root, encouraging us to dig beneath the surface, to create not for the sake of completion but from a place of genuine emotion and intent.

Understanding when a piece has reached its final form is, in itself, a subtle art. For some, the process is deliberate and measured, each choice considered and refined. For others, creation arrives in sudden clarity, a surge of energy that moves almost faster than thought. These moments, when the work pours out effortlessly, are often the most humbling. They’re the result of long hours spent mastering craft, where practiced skill transforms into instinct, and technique fades into something more fluid, more intuitive.

Personally, I’ve found that the more time I spend with a piece, the more it reveals itself to me. It’s in those long stretches of engagement that ideas deepen, layers emerge, and the true heart of the work begins to show. But I’ve also known the opposite: when a piece arrives in a flash, complete and clear, as though I’m merely uncovering something that already existed. Both experiences hold equal value. One is slow and introspective, the other sudden and almost mystical. What binds them is the feeling they leave behind, the sense that something real has been captured.

That feeling, that resonance, is what ultimately signals completion. It isn’t about perfection or polish. It’s about connection. A piece that carries the weight of real emotion, whether shaped over weeks or born in an afternoon, is complete not because it’s flawless, but because it feels true. That truth is what gives the work its life.

Learning to recognize that moment requires trust. It means listening closely, not just to the piece, but to yourself. Ask the quiet questions: Does this say what I needed it to say? Do I feel something when I look at it? If the answers land with a sense of quiet certainty, then perhaps it’s time to stop. But sometimes, we need the eyes and hearts of others to help us see. Trusted feedback can reveal what we’ve missed or confirm what we already sensed. Still, it’s essential to weigh that feedback against our own inner compass. Sincerity can’t be outsourced.

And maybe, most importantly, we must let go of the myth of perfection. Art isn’t tidy. It’s not supposed to be. Often, it’s the imperfections, the rough edges, the unresolved gestures, that carry the most truth. These are the elements that remind us the work came from human hands, shaped by real feeling rather than formula. They’re the proof of presence.

In the end, finishing a piece isn’t about reaching a perfect result. It’s about recognizing when you’ve expressed something honest, when the work feels alive in its own way. That’s when we let go, not because we’ve run out of time, but because we’ve found the heart of what we wanted to say.

In choosing sincerity over speed, we give ourselves permission to create from a deeper place. We honor the emotional thread that runs through each mark, each decision. And as we move through our artistic paths, we learn to listen, to the work, to our instincts, and to that still, small voice that tells us when something is ready to be seen.