Post, that is. Seems this weekend hosted, amongst other things, a non-surprising lack of updates to the blogs I read.
Now I know that weekends are rarely the time to update a blog. I've been guilty of not weekend blogging many times, and am not much ashamed of that fact. But, I do manage to wake up early enough in the mornings that when I post it's waiting for you, bright and sunshiney, like a poached egg waiting
Damn. There are mornings when the words simply don't flow. *lol* Most mornings I could sit here and write for hours, it seems, assuming you guys would want to read the result of hours of writing. This morning seems to have snagged a bit, though. I'm having a bit of a trial at making any good sense to myself.
Lessee--how about a different tack.
When I was first discovering the joys of painting and was really hard at it, to the point that I was buying canvas by the roll and making stretcher frames out of whatever wood happened to come to hand, it seemed that the outside influences on my life, or perhaps the internal influences given outside credence, were making me downright crazy. I seemed to be facing stress on all sides, depression was playing silly buggers with me, and every morning was a gaping tooth-filled maw waiting to devour my day. And during those days my paintings simply flew from my fingertips. It seemed I would finish one canvas and set it aside and three more would have already lined up in my head, waiting.
That was also the time that I was painting angry. Every brushstroke would be a slash, every daub of paint was a long bloody smear. I would launch into a 3' x 4' tall canvas and after two hours it would be covered in jagged impasto mountains and valleys, the dropcloth would be damp with sweat and turpentine and linseed oil, and I would feel like a wrung-out dishtowel. I would find myself cursing and yelling at the canvas somewhere in the midst of creation, and the feeling was pleasant in that sort of 'blood roaring out and utterly draining you' way. Not the best feeling in the world, but it was exorcising the demons, so I guess at the time I could't complain. There were days that I would have sworn that I could feel the black bile coming out of my fingertips and onto the canvas, via the brush.
Now that my life has settled onto an even keel, or I've better learned how to keep my life on an even keel, the paintings have slowed considerably. Not stopped entirely, but I haven't laid brush to canvas in months. My paintings of the last few years have been much more relaxed, though still hurried. The subject matter has turned from outright menace and bonelessly-stretched screams to boulders that have unfurled their mainsail and turned to against the wind, sailing across skies that are tacked-up pieces of paper. I don't curse at the canvas anymore, and don't feel the need to, and I rarely try to use a brush as a dagger anymore. And somehow I feel I've lost something in my artwork.
I still create, don't think that I've stopped. My creativity has, however, found different outlets and sometimes I wonder if perhaps that hasn't difused it somewhat. I used to paint, now I do my woodworking (which if nothing else has a more useable end-product) and I'm restoring the truck, and gardening more again. And blogging, let's not forget about that. I wonder now if there will come a time when I will tire of writing so much, or get to a point in my woodworking where skill advances will come so far and few between that I'll return to the easel and canvases. Or will I change again, remake myself in another image.
I wonder if Miami Ink is hiring artists...