First off, does anyone actually blog anymore? I feel early Millennial by writing blog posts. Or that I'm too naive to be too busy or too important to blog. Then there's the privacy issue.
I accidentally joined ArtStack without thinking it through. Only after joining as a person did I realize that a profile had already been established for me as an artist, complements of ArtStack. I'm not necessarily against random sites picking up my art and using it to promote their services but as soon as MAH the person signed up, I was automatically assigned to follow 60 people, 50 of whom I have no idea who they are. It was like being pushed onto a dance floor.
But back to real life. It's 8:04. There's a baked potato in the microwave. My potato will be shriveled by the time I make it back to the kitchen. I snacked on raw almonds and drank hot tea + an expresso today. Yesterday I spent 7 hours in the studio painting and unpainting a moderately large canvas. At the end of 7 hours I had a what looked to be some vague brushstokes and muted OMS washes. In reality, it represented 7 hours of indecisiveness.
1. a final defiant stroke.
Today, I finally settled on a musical teapot. It plays "Tea for Two" whenever you pour. The teapot is just a starting point. I don't think any painter worth their weight in cobalt would admit to having a 24/7/365 seamless day in the studio, but in case you are one of those people who everything goes totally planned in the studio every single day, I'll assume you are a machine, a soulless little machine.
It's hard to define how one could work 10 hours simultaneously knowing, not knowing, wanting, but not wanting- to paint a thing, but not a thing, to paint something that is not verbal, but yet articulate- without resorting to total abstraction or the cloyingly pat, and still be excited about getting back in the studio to continue this process, but session after session, this is what I do. I was reminded today, again, not to concern myself with labels and to paint what I like.
I had a strange calmness come over me as I was working on some details, which I will admit at this stage is way too soon to work on details, but I'm busting out a bit. The teapot is just the starting point.
“Do you believe in God, doctor?"
No - but what does that really mean? I'm fumbling in the dark, struggling to make something out. But I've long ceased finding that original.” -Albert Camus, The Plague