There are so darned many
unanswered questions. Why do we
do what we do? Like blurt out personal feelings to total
strangers, lie for no reason and overreact to imagined slights? Don’t you really want to know? Why
is it so hard to keep both socks? Where did that $100 bill go? What does
disease mean or is it just random bad luck? How on Earth can we be so loving
and so hateful nearly in the same breath? What flips that switch? Or why did I blindly go along with my ex-husband's suggestion to name a cute little budgie Desenex after an anti-fungal cream when I thought it was idiotic?
It is stupidly unfair
that there are so many big and small mysteries over the course of a
lifetime. What I sincerely hope for is that when we die we can go to a big,
beautiful place called ‘The Library of What the Fuck’. There we can find truthful
answers for all those times we had to ask, "What the fuck?" while on Earth. I
want the whole truth, a comfortable chair (cloud?), good coffee and eternity if
necessary to look it all up. Before I had a chance to surf the web I had this
notion that I’d be able to find meaningful answers on the web. While how to
paint a car, choose a camera or find a purebred hamster may be informative there
are few answers to what really makes us tick. Why didn’t I love men who were
good for me and cling to the ones who were not? Why don’t I want to work out
knowing how good I feel after? Why is impressionistic painting so difficult
when it looks so easy?
The second painting I did of a boy holding a cat I can clearly remember a moment of feeling freedom with paint. It flowed off the brush effortlessly while I added the background weeds with a few perfect strokes. That it happened so well on my second painting is a mystery. It has rarely happened since and not for lack of effort. In my experience painting is usually a series of accidents, corrected until they look right. Impeccable control with a brush has proved frustratingly elusive. Thanks Goya and Thiebaud for such fine examples, but how did you do it? Or more precisely, how can I? It is another question for my ideal library, but it’s not over yet and today is another hopeful day.
The second painting I did of a boy holding a cat I can clearly remember a moment of feeling freedom with paint. It flowed off the brush effortlessly while I added the background weeds with a few perfect strokes. That it happened so well on my second painting is a mystery. It has rarely happened since and not for lack of effort. In my experience painting is usually a series of accidents, corrected until they look right. Impeccable control with a brush has proved frustratingly elusive. Thanks Goya and Thiebaud for such fine examples, but how did you do it? Or more precisely, how can I? It is another question for my ideal library, but it’s not over yet and today is another hopeful day.
 |
| Slippahs, from the series 90 Paintings in 90 Days, 2011 |
 |
| evidence of effort |
