I had artist envy at a very early age. My first-grade art teacher loved the work of a Korean girl in our class. She didn’t speak much (if any) English. I remember her water colors. He would have to take them away from her before she rubbed a hole in it from all her work. She would get very upset with him when he told her they were done. I remember her struggling to keep the piece of paper on her desk. They were beautiful. The memory of the push and pull between artist and teacher tugs at me when I stand in front of the canvas still. I need that first grade teacher to take away the paints and put me in front of a new blank mind this week.
Here is Thing 2in Progress:
The chiaroscuro underpainting
The initial explosion of color. I shudder when I see sienna anywhere near green… and still it happens.
I love the upper left hand corner, but that egg shaped horizon would not shake loose. It was on purpose to prevent any frenzied flipping. Must control something.
The break in the horizon helped, but the right hand tree had disappeared in a parallel river path to the ochre distance.
Bring the pink into the foreground and break up the right with black.
Over thinking things? Yes. But can’t I fall in love with the neurosis of it all? Some people stab away at a canvas for years.
It could be the cold that has crept into the Eastern Mid-Atlantic and the half naked trees in post peak splendor. Either way, today was rough going. Not wanting to waste the rest of the paint and the lovely birch board I had primed, out came this before leaving:
Which way is up? I just don’t know.