Cranky. That's what I am when I can't paint. When I don't have the time, when other projects, apathy, or life gets in the way. It's not so different from how I feel when in a crowd for too long. My shoulders tighten. They debate the possibility of prying my head off my body. My mouth snaps, a chomping crow, undeserved retorts at most anyone nearby. It's a bad thing. The feeling that the black wall at the end of life is coming too fast is overwhelming. Now is the only time I have for this. I'm 37 years old. I only get one shot at this world. Dwelling on how many ways the word "squandered" can be applied is not how I want to spend it or end it.
Drop a shoulder and shove into the crowd of the day and find some time to breath. Watch the leaves turn. The maple is red and growing bare too quickly. Step into the studio with a hunk of meat in your hand and paint.
Cranky. Maybe it's the only word for me. I felt it when I couldn't paint. Now I can paint, but I can't paint. It's the brush's fault. Its too fuzzy from too many years in a jar of mineral spirits. Try another brush. This one sucks too. Maybe the light's wrong. Maybe the pallette is too messy. Maybe I can't paint. This isn't crankiness. There's a manic serenity to this. A sweetness. Somewhere between humor and hopelessness. I found some time. But I don't know how to paint. Sometime after 1 am I step forward and with a sleeve of my shirt obliterate many hours of work. It's an excuisite feeling. The same goes on for more than a week. I transform pork chops and drumsticks into even deader meat.
Yesterday, I charge in. Bravado will charm the talent out of hiding. It feeds on that kind of foolishness. I start to see it. Something good is happening. I grow tentative. I find an excuse in a cup of tea to step outside. I'm a little scared of that 8" square panel. I drag myself back in and make swift, if sometimes cautious, work of it. Later than night, I try again on another piece. With more and different success. Two paintings of pork chops were finished. They are similar but feel quite different - to me.
The "different" in "different success" is a key point. Painting is a long series of decisions. Before the obvious decision of subject matter, there is the starting point of your perspective - the why you paint and the how you see. In a way, the entire reason we paint is to try to find this starting point. The trouble is, it's a fidgety scoundrel. And just when you think you've found it, it moves. A jeweled and platinum wonder, but still a cockroach. When it moves, your painting falters.
Some of the reasons I struggled are obvious - distraction, expectations, stress, and so on. But the real reason is that you can't emulate a good painting and expect a good painting in return. With every painting, you have to hunt for that cockroach.
Fatty Chop, 8" x 7"
But then maybe calling "inspiration" a cockroach is a little revealing.