"The moving hand has writ" as the old poet said and our journals prove it. Capturing time; the moods, thoughts, worries and joys. All summer I work and play hard and then winter comes and I shut down as much as possible and go inside. I dream, piddle around, read everyone's blogs, dream I am a great cook and someday will create a giant chocolate ganache to make my poor deprived husband's eyes bug out with wonder but no; it is only the castles I build in my imagination. If wishes were fishes.
Getting the ideas to materialize is so much work. I will put the finishing touches on a big 30x40" canvas today. I paint with the canvas tilted on a flat table because the big easel makes my arm hurt after awhile. A vertical canvas is so much trouble; I can never get back far enough to see what I am doing. I feel like a bug painting a mural. And the painting. It is weird. John came in last night and made the wrong kind of noises when he saw it and then tried to back peddle. It's okay. I know it is an odd one. But what is an artist if not a person who crawls out to the end of the limb? If you think about the risk you will be doomed. Silenced. And so you go on and paint the occasional weird canvas.
I've been wholly absorbed in the idea that I must gather the materials to (1) hook a rug out of strips of wool and (2) learn how to knit a sweater. I think the painting I will show you in a day or two would make a good hooked rug. Maybe that is where my mind is right now.
Thanks for hanging with me. I am feeling indecisive today but also accepting of that. More so than I usually am; I am usually bipolar-ish and unable to find the middle. How about you? Winter compared to summer? Do you change with the seasons? I really want to know.