I’m having a bit of a run in the new painting space.  I’m juggling four or five big paintings, moving them on and off the easel as inspiration for how to tackle each one comes and goes.  Unfortunately none are done, but I think this one is getting there.   Somehow it got a bit dark so I’m helping it back a bit.

I know that writers are often surprised by what the characters they write about end up doing, as if they don’t control that but just let the story come out through them, and can be devastated when they find themselves killing a dear one off.  My painting experience isn’t quite so dramatic but does it surprise you — I don’t think so — that I talk to my paintings, like they were youngsters or pets perhaps, and am surprised and a little chuffed when they go off in the wrong direction?  I call hopefully, maybe they’re not far and can find their way back, and then resign myself to following after and trying to figure out how to coax them back.

I guess if I continue that analogy I’d add that sometimes in running off after them I discover wonderful new neighbourhoods and groups.  Great experiences.  New meaningful conversations with colour, and dances with shape.  Coy flirtations with perspective.

Yeah, yeah.  Mostly I just curse under my breath and try to figure out how to drag them back with the least kicking and screaming.

And we know who’s the one doing that, right?


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