Remember my "I Don't Paint Anymore" post, where I confessed to a true need to stimulate myself creatively, putting paint to canvas ever so expressively. Here we are, three months later, and I still haven't finished a painting I set out to start oh in... January. What is it about a project like this that seems so daunting? Is it that I am afraid of how simple the image is? Or afraid that I am super rusty (it's been four years since I've done this)? Is it that this painting is not for me, but a gift for someone else? Or that I don't have an easel? Is it that life gets in the way, or that I am full of excuses, because there's so much Parson's porch-sitting to be had?
Either way, I visited the Art Institute last night to squeeze in a viewing of the Christopher Wool show, which I guess didn't really speak to me in any sort of way. Sorry, not sorry. Normally, I dig the big abstract painting, painting that is about painting, for some reason these works left little to no impact on me. But being in the hustle and bustle of a museum space, smelling the pseudo-dampness of the antiquated climate controlled historic building, seeing people sketching in the galleries, I had a rude awakening. As soon as I was home, I got to work. I pulled the forgotten canvas from behind my dresser, pulled out the paint, and applied yet another layer of beige / mushroom / off-white. Blue and orange, let's see what you can do for me.
Bonus make: While I was painting, I had water boiling for pasta - spaghetti with meatballs for lunch. Yum!