My students’ enthusiasm to learn oil paints has forced me to dig deep in my dark closet of past passions. It’s been nearly 18 years since I touched a brush to oils.
I have to thank him.
I had forgotten how sexy oils are. Get past the ick and stick factor and it’s rather like mud wrestling in color. Thick, viscous, carnal. Oils, for me are the paint equivalent to finessing a sinewy figure from a slimy lump of clay.
I thank you my dear student. Beware, for I believe I have seen you twitch when it’s time to put the brush down and clean up. A delicious addiction.
Today was a day of giggles as we stared at ourselves in glass tree ornaments and tried to draw ourselves for our rubber ball portraits. How smashingly different each was. Goes to show that no matter how objective we try to be, we all have our inescapable inner perspectives. Ah, but that is why art is so fascinating!
I’ve been wondering lately (and therefore procrastinating) what is it that I want to say with this blog. Why do I feel the need to tell, write, express. I ponder this often. I chose the path of an artist. This is not the obvious path to financial stability, although finances are the dimension of my life by which I and many others judge my success. So, why be an artist? The drive of an artist is to express, communicate, question. For nearly forty-five years I have had this itch, an internal crawling to get it out. Just tell everyone. It is such an itch that I get an awful pit in my stomach when I try. The problem is I don’t know what it is that I need to express. When I face this dilemma head on and really dig deep, searching my inner quagmire for a reason, or purpose, or message I come up empty, or maybe short, or maybe I’m afraid of it. So I continue painting, sculpting and writing always of the human, be it the body or the mind. One thing has rung true throughout my life of art, that I am always searching for a better understanding of humans. Why are we here? What is our purpose? What is my purpose? Why did I meet her? Why didn’t I meet him? Why did I fall ill? Why did she die? Why do we persist despite great tragedies? Why are you rich? Why is she poor? Why was he beaten? Why was I abused? Why?
In all these years of searching, I have been writing, drawing, remembering. Trying at least to remember what little I do. I was happy. That’s what I remember. I remember that as a little girl I was happy and that mostly I forget. Here, I will remember as much as I can of Dot.