I painted today. For myself. I don’t have enough digits to count back to the last time I picked up a brush and let the canvas talk. It’s a work in progress, nothing special to show for. But maybe with time it will grow to be something worth keeping. Projects from my hand are painted over more than they’re hung on display. Unless it is something to be proud of, there is no use in keeping it. If it feels necessary, I take photos to remember them by. Otherwise I store the canvases away until the mood strikes again.
I’m not a painter. I’m not really much of anything. But I have seven years and dozens of art classes in my past to prove that I am capable of producing mediocre art. I could be – if I put all of my energy into it. But I don’t. Because I know there are better artists out there. I don’t hold a candle to their talent.
So I paint for myself. I paint to distract myself, clear my mind, unwind. I let the canvas speak to me. The brush tell me where to apply pressure. The paint inspire some direction. Sometimes I feel better when I’m done.
Often times I don’t. Today I sat back from my easel and wondered where this piece was going. Why had I used that particular dripping technique? Why those muted, dull colors?
Uncertainty. That is what my painting is whispering. It doesn’t know where it’s going anymore than I do.
And that really sucks.