Many of us are reluctant to let go of tradition. This tendency is particularly true of artists. The heavy smell of turpentine and the ritual of stretching and priming the canvas of stretched—it’s all so familiar and holy. It connects you forward and backward. But art isn’t meant to be a static practice. It’s a wild, untethered thing, stretching and squirming into whatever shape suits its time. That’s why I’ve found myself lately intrigued by resin. Clear, glossy resin.
Imagine: a petri dish or a massive table of swirling colors, like a galaxy captured mid-spin or like the polished edge of a river stone. Resin art can be uncooperative and can also produce banal results. And yet I persist. I love how it resists my attempts at being “arty.” To start, you’ll need some basics: a two-part resin (the kind that comes with resin and hardener), gloves, stirring sticks, and a mold. Pick something small to begin—a coaster, perhaps.
The next part is all preparation, like a chef gathering and prepping ingredients. Lay down a tarp or some butcher paper because resin doesn’t forgive accidents. Mix your resin and hardener in equal parts, then stir with slow, methodical circles for about two minutes. There’s a moment when the mixture turns clear, which is when you know it’s ready.
Now comes the frustrations. Add pigment: drops of ink or mica powder for a metallic shimmer. Pour into your mold and let the colors bleed together. Use a toothpick to create marbled swirls or leave it be. The resin will do its thing, settling and hardening overnight into something new, unpredictable, and wholly yours.
The next day, peel it free like a chrysalis and marvel at the gloss and the sheer meh of it. Occasionally, though, you’ll find a piece worth keeping.
