By late morning I'm on my way to the studio. I scrape the palette clean, admonish myself for never cleaning brushes, move solvent around from jar to jar (removing the sediment), and wonder who convinced me that I had any talent or skill or whatever. Someone with talent wouldn't be scared of a little patch of white canvas.
I nervously plot my first work of the day like a guerilla army planning a raid. With a little effort and strategery, I'll be painting before I or the paintings realize it. If I'm smart, I'll start with something easy or inconsequential. But we all know what good intentions are worth. That big painting that I've been working on is still on the easel. I go to take it down but before I realize it, I'm painting. I just wanted to adjust the blue in one small piece of the sky. Fool, you're still clumsy, you need to warm up. Too late, I have no choice but to keep working as I've just ruined it.
An hour or three ticks by. Now I've really ruined it. I step back time and time again, sometimes looking in a mirror for a fresh perspective. I suck. Who do you think you are? You're an imposter. You might have made a good painting or two, but it was luck, nothing more. Give up.
I wander out to the garden. The buds are pushing forth. I clip a branch or two. Contemplate moving a plant. Drink a cup of tea while sitting on the stone wall thinking about nothing. Find some lunch.
Back in the studio. I see the problem. I forgot the idea. It doesn't have to be a big idea. I'm not talking about the meaning of life or even the cure rates for different concrete recipes. I'm talking about the way orange and gray vibrate, how the light simmers on the side of a building, or how red is flesh is red. The brushes are moving fast. Something good is happening. Or not. It doesn't matter. Something good will happen.
Erin's home. She sticks her head in the studio, tells me to ventilate the space and gives her approval of my efforts. If she has a rehearsal (she's a violinist), we'll toss back any old food. If not, we'll cook or disappear to one of the restaurants in walking distance. Portland is a foodie town.
I head back to the studio. I was wrong. I am horrible, the innocent painting I've just ravaged even more so. I know it. You know it. How the hell am I going to have work ready for the show in a week? I scrape it down a bit and grab bigger brushes. Godzilla in a tutu pirouetting through Tokyo, I lay waste to the old painting. And something good does indeed happen. I am a painting gOD. Bow before me. Tremble for I am mighty. A beautiful thing happened at the end of brush, finger, rag, and knife. How did I do this? I must do it again.
Clouds, 28" x 22", Oil on Canvas
It's 10 pm and Erin's heading to bed. I keep working. The hours tick by. I look up, it's past midnight, maybe past two. I may have worked on anywhere from one to five or six paintings over the day. Some happen in an hour, some take working and reworking over months.
Sleep beckons. It's been a good day. I feel both fortunate that I live this blessed life and that I couldn't live any other - though I have tried.
I slip into my side of the bed and read until sleep takes me.
p.s. the above is the day that isn't wasted with bad reruns on the Netflix box and research into motorcycles I'll never own while eating bon-bons.