I am greeted by an empty nest. Each and every painting I have invested so much love and attention to has gone. They are out there now, in the big bad world. Hanging on the wall at Blanch House.
I am left with a handful of half-finished canvases. The ones that I've neglected and ignored, the one's that I've fallen out of love with. A motley bunch they are too...
I dig out the "rock-face". I've been thinking about what to do with it over the past couple of days. A bold decision had to be made. Out comes the sandpaper, and I set to work sanding down the meandering pink neon line to a smooth, flat surface.
I paint the pink out with white acrylic and take three attempts to draw in a new path of least resistance.
The neon will still be pink, but the line will stagger more than before as it traces its way through the blackness.
I have made a small canvas for a new secret painting. I prime it and chuck a load of filthy, oily black water and ink and God-knows-what over it.
Now, brushes are the main tools-of-the-artist, and I don't look after them nearly as well as I should. They are in desperate need of a deep clean: a bowl of warm water with washing-up liquid and a bowl of clean water to rinse. I end up with a sore on my hand where I've been pressing the brushes to work the soap into them. Ow!
So you really are working in your lofty perch.
ReplyDeleteYes indeed, Anonymous, and it's a precarious position for one who suffers with vertigo. Just about every week I count my blessings that I haven't yet taken a tumble down the hatch - though there have been one or two close shaves.
ReplyDeletethanks for your comment.
The Wednesday Painter