There's paint under my nails that's been building up for days. It's in my clothes, now a permanent part of the fiber, and stuck to the strands of hair that fall across my face and get shoved impatiently out of the way. Painting turns my usually mellow personality into something frenetic, focused, intense. My inner flower child just steps out of the way of the assertive, determined creature that surfaces; steps out of the way and watches in wonder at the transformation. I'm used to this seeming disconnect in my personality. Sometimes I refer to it as a muse, other times I don't even bother with a label, and always- like that amused, quiet flower child- I get out of its way and let it do its job. I never feel more like an artist than when The Painter surfaces and takes over.
It started with this small piece. Only 16" x 20", acrylics on a stretched canvas. 'Yes,' it whispered, 'this is Right. More!'
It went on to this, a test, of sorts.
Another 16" x 20".
'
Not bad. Again!'
This time larger, a 30" x 40" canvas, heavy, and clumsy to maneuver in the studio. Does The Painter care that I'm getting older, finding it harder to move these large beasties around? Not much; in fact, it never asks, just directs.
When the piece is done, and The Painter goes quiet for a few minutes, I get to step up close and examine its work. I'm fascinated.
(detail)
(detail)
I can still hear it whispering. 'More!'
3 comments:
Fascinating. I'm especially taken with the black-and-white that has several random splotches of color.
LOVE the pink one! I could look at it all day.
Sometimes we just take some remaining gobs of paint from our palette and either swab the paper/board with a brush or a knife! (-2 of us did that today!)
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