I stretched and primed this canvas yesterday morning and painted most of it yesterday. Before I went to bed last night I painted some more, and then got it to this stage this morning.
I just wanted to paint. I’ve been in a somewhat dry spell over these past seven months, too concerned about a problem that seems to be resolving now. I hope it is resolving, anyway.
I’d almost forgotten the joy I get from painting. Painting is very different than thinking about painting. Thinking makes it a chore. The activity of painting is so present and personal. No one tells me I shouldn’t use that color, or I should wash my brush. No one tells me what I can’t do or that I’m doing it wrong. I don’t care about that anyway, except that it annoys me when people do that.
I love to sell paintings, but I don’t think about that when I’m working on one.
It’s hard to say what I do think about, because either the thought and the action are the same, or the thought is just a soundtrack that accompanies the brushstrokes.
I wanted to share the image in progress, because art is communication. It is language. It says things I can not say with words.
I’ve had feedback since posting the image, and this makes it a dialogue. A conversation that only adds to the joy. The process just keeps getting better.