I owe huge thanks to several people.
To an old and distant friend, for talking to me when I needed it most.
To another friend, and his wife, for letting me buy her ticket to see Tom Waits (oh, man... what could be more worth seeing?)
But also, to Richos, for the art show that has awakened an intregal part of everything that I am, when they had an art show yesterday (and let me have a few peices up in it).
And to Lisa, who gave me some oil paints in preparations for leaving the country again to do her missionary work.
Today, I bought the few colors missing from the oil paints she gave me. Since Lisa had supplied the majority of them, plus the lindseed oil and turpentine, and the show yesterday reminded me of what I do, it only took a few bucks to do what I have not done since the 90's.
Today, for the first time since the late 90's, I spread sweet oil paint on canvas. I can't possibly express what that sensation is for me, so I wont bother trying.
All I can say is, thank God, and thanks to those of you who played a part.
I don't want to ever stop, but I'm already running out of some colors and need canvases pretty badly. If you know any local artists who no longer paint and have a few neglected canvases laying around, you might send them my way. I've started two paintings just today, and am letting them dry a little before moving on to the next steps. In the meanwhile, I intend to start up a third, if I can find another old canvas around here. The second one I started today was rotting and had holes in it, but I don't care. I just want to paint.
I need to paint. I need to sing. Sometimes, I need to write. Sometimes, I need to eat. Some people may have more talent than I. Most artists spend more time developing their talent. But every real artist knows that life just aint worth much without that lucious sensation of bristles vibrating against the nearly undetectible texture of taught threads, and the paint responding to the threads, the bristles, the movement of the hand... just sweetly, silently, languidly, sensually ... finding it's place, blending with the pigments beneath, and swimming into a new creation.
-Like some sleepy muse creating a fervent fire in your soul while only lazing into casual recline...
Paint can fall into place so carelessly, responding to the brush like a sleeper barely reacting to noise in the night, and yet fall into perfection, without even trying. I love paint. Whether my hand really knows how to move it or not, I love paint.