I’ve been working on the painting Underwater for the better part of a year, and several months ago I thought it was finished. However, part of my routine is to turn a painting against the wall for a few weeks and then reexamine it to see if I still feel the same.
One of my favorite artists, Alex Kanevsky, says that as he finishes a painting, he slows down, allows the painting to breathe, and waits for it to stop needing him.
Taking his advice, when I turned Underwater around a couple of weeks later—I knew it still needed me.
The secret to good painting is difference. Be it color, value, texture, line, shape, scale… if you don’t have difference, the work just isn’t dynamic.
As I looked at the painting, I saw a range of greens but no obvious complementary color. So I got to work and added various reds. Sure enough, it started to come to life.
Turned it to the wall again.
A week later, back on the easel, I noticed all of the coral was the same scale. So I added a more delicate pattern in the upper left area to balance with the heavier forms in the rest of the painting.
And back to the wall it went.
“Alright,” I thought, “you’ve finally nailed it!”
Again—referring to Kanevsky…
“A painting can be a space where nothing
needs to be understood, but much can be felt.”
As I turned the painting around once more—I felt it.
The problem shouted at me: “ALL OF YOUR FISH ARE THE SAME SIZE!”
Now, this might sound a bit woo-woo, but I also felt something else.
I asked myself, “Vicki, are you afraid to add small fish?”
The more I simmered, the more I knew it was true. If I did add them, they would be eaten.
Shaking off what seemed absurd, I added a few small fish.
There. Done. At last! Let it go, Vicki!
As I left the studio, I turned and looked at the painting one more time.
“Yep,” I said to myself, “they will be dead by the end of the week!”
On the drive home, I suddenly remembered how minnows dart about in schools in unison, quickly changing directions. Clearly, I wasn’t letting go.
Once home, I Googled: “how do small fish survive in coral reefs?”
Wow, did I learn a lot.
Turns out, fish schools create sensory overload for predators, making it hard for them to focus on a single fish. When the school senses danger, they go into rapid, synchronized twists and turns—then scatter, regroup, and dart off again. As they move, the school creates a drafting effect that conserves energy.
If the threat continues, the school forms a tight spherical ball, only to explode outward—then fall back into their tight-knit, synchronized swim again.
To pull off this dance, they rely on a specialized organ made of sensory hair cells that runs along their sides. This detects movement, pressure changes, and vibrations—allowing a split-second response to avoid collision.
According to Google, in a school of a thousand fish, each has only a 1-in-1000 chance of being killed in an attack.
That made me feel better. I knew I didn’t have enough small fish in the painting to make up a school—but I pretended there were 997 others just inches away.
And so it goes.
Shelter and strength can be felt in numbers, above and below water.
Teaming up might just be our salvation, frankly.
And so it goes.
And so it goes.
(Note: AI did not write this post)