It’s a rather large canvas, so I would like it to end up being something worth while.
I’ve had some beautiful starts on it, the best being one I started when I was young (early 20's?)and full of life. However, all of my efforts on it turn from beauty to failure. I’ve tried to tell myself that it doesn’t matter… that the practice acquired through even my failed efforts is a payoff in and of itself, something to make me a better artist.
And so, I begin and begin again. Each time, though, it is harder. The ridges and gouges of past strokes show through, and the thick-caked history beneath threatens my efforts a little more each time. But, although the work I’m starting right now will be imperfe, with seemingly random past textures confusing my new strokes, I know that these hands of mine are capable of sweeping gestures that can conduct pigments into meaning. I know I can create something from this battered canvas.
My hands are special, because I can give my entire soul through them. The movements of my hands are more important than the contractions of my lungs, because it is through them that I breathe in the world, and give of myself.
If this canvas was meant to receive something from me, I can give it, no matter what chaos of mistakes may clutter the background. If this painting I am starting is what my soul was meant to be a part of, then it will turn out. If it doesn’t work out, I will cherish the process and the intimacy I am now sharing with the canvas. Painting is truly intimate to me. It is spiritual and carnal and pure. If I let my doubts prevent my painting, then my life would have little meaning.
By the way, I would like to send a huge thank you, again, to Josh and his friend, and to Lisa, for contributing to my art supplies. There’s no way I could afford them on my own. Air and water are free, but for me… paint is more crucial than both, and without the supplies given me, I would be damned to suffocation. Thank you. :)