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When you've repeatedly hurled yourself at that wall and haven't emerged, bloodied, in front of a new wall. When you've flipped your brain around to look at it from every possible consciousness. When you've gone from detail to mass to detail to mass, to large connections to small accuracies. When you've repeated this process ad nauseum, until flipping your consciousness around no longer brings any results, and you're no longer getting valuable feedback, if you're lucky enough to have someone to comment.
When you fall in love with it, have memorized it, and have decoded the essence of it: light on form, your brain, combined with what in your personal path through the history of art strikes you with astonishing force (including architecture, music, poetry, even your continuous interior monologue). When you never want it to end because it is rapturous to tinker with the finishing touches, the Rhythms, the surface quality, the hatchings that comprise the tones.
But know that it's always a choice, and a matter of how important the answer to the question "where does this stand in the history of art" is to you, at that particular moment, on your particular stage.
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