I forgot how much I love painting. I’ve never been really serious about it, but art is a hobby that I grew up with. It’s comforting, sitting around and making things just for the sake of making them. I’ve given countless works away, and thrown away even more. It feels good. All of it. The making, the destroying, the waving away.
I never make art for long. It comes it fits and starts, then the impulse disappears.
As it happens, however, I’m really only good once during any cycle. Always the first time, when the painting, or drawing, or collaging (I hate to admit it, but even writing is this way with me) is still impulsive, and not intentional. I guess some is better than none, right?
That silly piece I did for the MIA show put me in the mood to make things.
So, we walked to the art supply store today and bought paints, and canvases and brushes to use. Bob will use them for school projects, and I’ll use them just because. It’ll be a nice end-of-winter activity to do together.
On the way to the store we cut through the park.