It’s an unsettling feeling when you find yourself more interested in the paint drips and splatters on the floor in front of your painting than the painting you are actually working on.
When it first starts out, there’s that moment of fresh inspiration… let’s call it excitement. Something happens on the canvas that’s raw and real. Unfettered by too much thought or analytic deconstruction. You sit and stare, and enjoy it for a little while, but something about it just doesn’t seem mature. There’s something not quite right about it. At least something in my mind is telling me that it’s somehow incomplete.
So my reaction is to screw the whole thing up and struggle to get it back to the point of origin. Perhaps this is a metaphor for how I approach my life… something I should take up with my therapist… if I had a therapist. But that discussion’s for another time.
In any case, I was frustrated with my paintings, so I decided to take a step back and try something more immediate… something that I couldn’t go back and rethink. What better way than watercolor on paper…?
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