One of the concerns in the studio where I'm currently studying is about what can happen between the working out of a drawing and it's final appearance on the canvas. The usual method is to do a drawing from the motif, trace it onto transfer paper and then transfer it to the canvas. So at this point the drawing is thrice removed from it's original context. Like the game of "telephone" sometimes the original end result is somewhat different from the original. If you spend a lot of time getting your lines precise to within a 32nd of an inch, the slightest shift can be detrimental. One of the things that I do to try and avoid this problem when I'm transferring a drawing is to keep my drawing very schematic using the straight line drawing method. That way I'm transferring point to point measurements rather than nuanced lines which will certainly be lost. I always expect to lose the drawing to a certain extant while painting and re-discovering it while I'm painting is one of the joys that I look forward to. The other thing that I do is rather than just blindly transfer the drawing I use vine charcoal for the transfer and then I ink it in while working from the setup. This puts me back in touch with the "line harmony" that I'm going for in the first place. The best solution I've found though is to just do the drawing on the canvas in the first place. Many artists avoid this because they don't feel they can get a line that's equal to the precision of pencil on paper. I use hard vine charcoal shaved to a fine point and then with a small synthetic bristle brush I shave and refine the line pretty much the way that I would with a kneaded eraser. Again, the key for me is to not then just blindly ink over the charcoal outline but to do it while re-drawing from the motif.
          Even with all that, the finished painting for me is always something of a surprise. The idea that I start with in my head is never a perfect match with the finished product. After all, painting should be, I think, a process of discovery, not an exact science. The initial impulse or vision is of course very important. It's what motivates you to make the work in the first place, but it's important to be open to possibilities as you're working. Sometimes a painting is going to go where it wants to go. Call it the muse or divine inspiration. There are times when I've completed a work where I seemed to be painting on sure instinct, almost as if my hand was guided. All artists have had that moment. It's natures way of every once in a while giving us a leg up. Our brain goes on automatic pilot as if to say "I'm going to give you a little glimpse of what you're really capable of, so you can quit screwing around and get to it!". This is not to be confused with rationalization. Rationalization is the enemy of all art. That voice that whispers in your ear "it's not so bad, nobody will notice" has to be ignored at all cost. If you see a problem, it's real and it's there and it's not going to go away.
         In "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" one of the characters in the novel talks about the difference between the touring biker who freaks out every time his equipment breaks down and the one who expects it to happen and is prepared for any eventuality and considers it as much a part of the journey as the wind blowing in your hair. I think that's kind of a good way to be about art-making; enjoy the problems  and the challenges as much as those moments when everything seems to be going right. It's all part of the same process. If you're making art that's frustration free you might as well start mass producing giclee prints, start your own line of paint sets, get a how-to-paint t.v. show and start growing your hair out. One of my teaching colleagues was complaining about some of the problem students, which can be stressful, but I reminded him that those would be the students he would  remember down the road; not the ones that were easy to teach.
         Sometimes something is lost between the artist and the viewer. Whenever I show my students the Wyeth painting "Christina's World" and ask them to describe what they see they inevatably see a teenage girl longing to escape the drudgery of farm life. And I have to admit that for many years that's what I saw as well. When I finally read the real story behind the painting, that it depicts a forty year old crippled woman who had to drag her body across the field to get to that point, I liked the painting even better. Many years ago I had a painting in an exhibit that featured two people kissing. One of the other artists came up to me and asked me what I was so angry about. I was quite taken aback and I said " but it shows two people kissing". At this stage I was a semi abstract painter and I guess my use of line and color had, for this fellow at least, overridded my original intent. One of my fishing buddies came into my studio a while back and he said "why do you have to always make your backgrounds so dark. You're so gloomy. You need to start brightening up those backgrounds and I bet you'll start selling a lot more work." I got a good laugh out of that because generally my color choices reflect a desire to achieve balance and harmony in my work but sometimes we artists have to remember that color has other properties besides their place on the spectrum. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, maybe it's a duck. I usually ask my wife to look at a finished piece because she's not an artist and she has a pretty good knack for picking out an ovious fault that I, with my rosy artist's glasses will entirely overlook. Sometimes that has caused me to get defensive and then I will remind her of that famous Degas quote, where he said that the reason he never married was because he was fearful that his wife would look at one of his paintings and say "oh, what a pretty little thing you've made".