Painting again after a long lapse. Began the night before in a bout of what felt like desperation. Grabbed the old drawing book and lathered it with old oil pastels. Last night after several frustrating attempts a flicker of hope. Felt like resuscitating an old pickup truck that was left in the weeds for two long. There I was on the couch with the TV flickering and Mrs C dozing, working the cheap pastel into paper. As usual with no idea as to what I was drawing. All the earlier sketches and attempts at pre planning an image hopelessly undone. I have forgotten that the satisfying stuff comes only when you let go and decide not to care about outcomes.
The cause of all this activity was the realisation that not drawing or painting will actually make me unhappy. Which is not a good thing. I seem to regard material things with a rather ruthless utilitarian view. The less stuff I have to buy or own – the less hassle I have to deal with.
Yet there’s no running away from the almost biological instinct to work shapes and colours until some internal ding in the head tells me its done. Resist and a tidal way of nameless shame washes over me. It has nothing to do with paintings I left with friends in other continents. I’ve certainly made peace with the misery of the first painting I ever sold.
The current process of drawing is laborious and gets in the way of practical things and irrelevancies such as blogging. So expect the odd service interruption. The crayons are a compromise to practicality and saves of time messing about with brushes paint and water. A space saver given our little hovel.
The shit that I draw is not worth polluting the walls. People will want them explained and I’ll be the wordless arty fool. You certainly won’t see it here anytime soon. Its still the early putters but the relief is oddly soothing. Saying so just adds to the peace.