Sunday, October 24, 2010
Last night, after visiting Aviva Gold's site, I shamed myself into painting. I've had all week, up until nearly10:00pm some nights, to paint. Time all to myself frittered away on the internet or journal writing/sketching or spinning or SoulCollage. Not once, until last night, did I pick up the brush to paint. For an hour and a half, in an utterly empty and silent house, I painted. I finished the spiraling, swirling and dashing of all the negative space with a mid-sized sable watercolor brush and sea foam silvery paint. (Silver courtesy of Pearl Ex powder. Kirsten turned me on to it.)
Then tonight, in the same empty house conditions, something consumed me. I took the tiniest sable brush and began painting tiny spirals EVERYWHERE. Any negative space between the spirals and swirls I'd done last night were filled in with more tiny spirals. It was like Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup comfort food with a side of tuna on cheap white bread and Lay's chips inserted for that extra fun crunch. The spirals became the visual equivalent of a meditator's mantra. Om namah shivaya . . . over and over until the words, or in this case, shapes, lost meaning. The spirals became blissful action. The spirals were everything but meant nothing.
The process felt scary. I mean, is this what I'm reduced to as an artist? What would a "real" artist be doing right now? A college art professor would see little merit in any of what I'm doing. The grade would be poor. That standard didn't count here so I'd just go back to doing spirals as if life depended on it, as if the sea foam green was the life's blood to these spirals. Maybe the spirals are a form of Artsitic Depression. Maybe I just needed to do spirals. I suspect there are many more in store for this particular painting. I have no answers. That has to be okay.