The difference in a day.
So I admit, I’ve been wallowing recently; these diary entries are starting to sound more like the faint whispers of a sociopath, rather than the rambles of a creative — note to self, there must be a fine line between the two. This past week hasn’t been kind; everything I did, thought, and after all the hours spent examining, I ended up not being tentative enought to actual art making, I look around even now, the self punishment seeping in, and see one canvas complete, 5 started, and thats it. Sketchbook work is down by 1,000,000%, and my art making output sank to an all time low. How can I call myself an artist, when the work I make is on the lower end of productivity. I blame the oil paints.
However, I did reach out to an open call for artists asking for portraits that deal with humanity; which would have been great if i had all 12 pieces ready to go, but I don’t, and so I submitted some older works, 4, that could be connected to the brief, if my mental state splattered all over the gallery walls was what they were after. Anyway, it’s a start.
I also let go this evening. The most stupidest thing about being an artist, is that I end up thinking about what I want to do more often then I make what I want to do. I’m not laughing.
I actually created though! I was bold, I used my fucking fingers, I got in there, no sketch, no plan, I just was. Granted I hated it, but some valuable lessons I learnt this week were to play, and to make bad art.
I hate making bad art.
They are good lessons; I felt a great surge of pent up frustration as I dug for my kids poster paints and squirted them all across the page of my sketchbook, smearing them with brushes I’ve never used, and wiping them off on my clothes because at that point I didn’t give a fuck.
I hope I don’t tomorrow.
I have green paint on my hands.
They were good lessons. What a difference a day makes.
