oil on board
You're sitting in front of the easel thinking, let me just dash off an apple. Simple enough. At least you'll have a painting to post. The pups just went out, so they should brawl in their little playpen and give you at least one hour, uninterrupted. This'll be good. It'll get you outta that funky mood, the one that covers you in doubt like a thin transparent film of filth, dulling your vision and sealing up your ears to any sanity that might try to squeak through and knock you upside the head and out of the pity pot.
Well here it is. That freakin' apple! Been working on it for 3 weeks on and off. And it sucks. I need to get this out. I know it seems ridiculous. It's a painting of an apple. Surely not your best Suz, but hey, it's ok. If you are an artist I'm guessing you know what I'm talking about. If you've read my blog at all you know I'm a walking poster child for insecurity and doubt, always lamenting the loss of my mojo. I even received a very passionate email from someone admonishing me, albeit gently, for even uttering the words "I can't paint anymore!" This person's mother was a gifted artist until surgery went dreadfully wrong and made it impossible for her to work— ever again. That definitely gave me pause and made me even more guilty about this latest session of nonsense and waste 'o time.
I felt stupid trying to explain to her that those feelings of dread, of the seeming loss of one's ability, however false they might be in reality, feel very real. Stupid? Yes. I know I'm responsible for what I think and feel. Thoughts cannot just show up. And they all have a purpose. And if I don't take steps to curtail this flight of fancy into the dark place, I'm really going to be extremely unhappy, not to mention hopelessly behind.
So I'm posting this freakin apple. I'm not going to melt, disappear, or spontaneously combust if I post work that I think isn't good. I should make it a point of posting everything I do, good, bad or indifferent. I need to laugh at this stuff. These standards I'm holding myself to are ridiculously high, not to mention arrogant and methinks I'm not the only one sick and tired of my constant whining. I'm so very tired of this dance, obviously I can paint.
It's nothing but a smokescreen of doubt so that when the smoke does clear, there I'll be, on the bed, Pug on each shoulder — one eating my hair, the other still bent on extracting milk from my ear lobe, remote in one hand, bag of chips in the other and depression, solidly and "happily" in place. I think it would be a lot easier if I just put the brush down, laughed off the doubt and insecurity and watched the tube until I felt better, providing I felt better within the next hour that is.
Maybe I'll try that the next time.