Painting is hard.
I learned this in the past hour.
Ok, to be honest, I knew it wasn't easy. I've studied art. I've gone to museums. There is definite skill required. So when my darling Wizard stuck me in front of a large blank canvas this evening and told me to paint, I was overwhelmed. I immediately began mixing black and white, and smearing a sort of stormy grey background all over it because it seemed like what I should do.
Much to much like that Counting Crows song, grey really is my favorite color. It's soothing and pleasant, and I gravitate towards it even more than green, which I love nearly as much. Unfortunately, after getting it all up there, I've come to realize that grey is my favorite color for a lot of things, but it makes for a pretty depressing painting. I look suicidal.
Grey notwithstanding, it's bad. It's amateurish looking and I cringe to think that I did that. There isn't even a subject yet, and already, I look like I'm badly copying my boyfriend's style because I have no idea where to begin.
Have you ever waited for paint to dry?
The suspense. Yee.
I know I've begun something awful, which I intend to continue until the end on the basis that I fucking started this shit, and I can't even move on, because I have to sit here and wait for Layer 1 to finish drying. In my impatience, I attempted to slap some yellow handprints across it, like an Indian might have imprinted his palm on the ass of his war pony. Bad idea. It looked horrendous, and I had to go back and paint over it.
At this point, I think I'm painting angry. I want to give up and get all Jackson Pollack on this canvas. I love the Wizard's paintings, but I don't want to look like a sad imitation of them. This entire venture feels like the culmination of all my frustrations lately. I don't want to deal with college this semester, I don't want my job, and I want to go home (Seattle). I'm pent up and I'm pissed off. And this canvas is mocking me.