Any form of discipline or schedule causes my inspiration to flee almost instantly. Seriously, I've tried. Oh lord, have I tried. I love reading about drawing or sketching every day, working out a system to create a sketches of a finished piece, then following through the blueprint to get to a beautiful finished work of art. I get rather excited when I hear about a discipline of painting for even a few minutes per day. But deep down, I know there's very little I can do to control my painting.
I believe that my painting practice is an act of faith. I show up to a blank sheet of paper or palette, dive in, and hope that something comes out that fills my heart with joy, and is possibly something nice to look at - but that would be a bonus. Many days, most days, it is just scribbles. I'm not kidding. Scribbles that look like I was wondering if my pen was running out of ink, then realized that I'm drawing with a pencil. Scribbles that looked like I was working out some anger while arguing with someone on the phone. Scribbles and streaks and swirls. Swirls of madness, more like.
The other day, I was doodling with my 1-year-old daughter's crayons. These scribbles turned out okay, but still, they are what they are:
Thus, I have a confession to make. Instances where my paintbrush behaves, where form meets colour, where passion meets expression, are very occasional at best. I have a nice, satisfactory painting streak once every few months. I am coming clean with this confession so that you as a reader don't lose complete faith in this blog, and can be there with me to rejoice when my muse actually comes back after a very long drought. Maybe I can even get your help in praying with me so that I figure out this process thing eventually, like, before I leave this earth.
Thank you for your support. :)
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