...I'm just doing something. Channeling Jackson Pollack. This piece looked kind of angry in the beginning, and then I softened it a little. It is a reflection of my inner landscape, where I am still an artist in the bud, hoping to bloom soon. Please.
Still in the what-the-hell-who-gives-a-hoot mode here in the little yellow house, where the yards languish and the dogs lay at my feet quizzically wondering if I will remember to feed them that day. This morning, I made the decision to not go anywhere, hence I am currently clothed in my favorite paint-splatted jeans and one of my thrift store shirts, thinking about my next move. I could go out and rake. Raking is not all that horrid; it is picking up the piles that is a bitch. I have finally devised a system; I take an old wastepaper basket that lost its pop-up lid, lay it on its side and scoop it full of leaves to dump in the yard waste bin. The whole operation takes about an hour, and gets me all sweaty even on cool days, so it is a good thing to be in my grubs, because I can be impulsive and wind up ruining some garment I actually liked. You can see from my current oeuvre that I am mellowing a little, colors getting a little softer, some direction to the piece, at least. This is so much fun, not having any investment in the outcome, just worshiping the process. Of course, for every one I put up for the world to see, there are three or four languishing in obscurity. That's okay. I learn something from every piece that comes up off the paper. Most of all, I am learning how to spend the energy generated by my grief in a way that does not hurt anyone, even me. Art therapy rocks.
It is one year from the day I walked with the Boo into the emergency vet, only to have to put him down four hours later. I am sad and angry and kind of all over the place at the moment, as you can see. Need more black pigment. Crazy world. Someone, at the art supply store for God's sake, nailed it. Boo was my "soul dog". Punk and the Pickle are sweet and marvelous company, but they will never fill the vacancy left in my heart when Boo died. So I will keep slapping paint around, wailing a little every so often, and just being all prickly, for a while.
Everyday, I get AnArtistADay on my iGoogle homepage, and they do the most kookie stuff, messy, often rather dismal stuff. And as the anniversary of Boo's death approaches, I put away my pastels, which were getting picky and not any fun, and got out the acrylics and Bristol paper, and started slapping. If I get really audacious, I will frame these little messes, put a hefty pricetag on them, and run 'em up the flagpole, see if they fly. Why the hell not? So, voila! The anniversary series begins!
I have been singularly unhappy with my pastel ability lately In fact, I put them away for a while. But not before doodling up this little ditty, the first one created specifically for a card. Dear friend is having her first baby, so I perused my body of work for a suitable image to print on her card (I seldom buy greeting cards any more, preferring my own images). Well, there were some that I could have used, but none that spun my beany. So here is the effort, not too coy or sugary, she is not that kind of person, but still full of that motherlove that I think all mothers share. Fathers, they are a different story, for sure. Anyhoo, now have the acrylics on the drawing board, slapping away at paper like I did a year ago, when Boo died so suddenly. Feeling like I need to get even more heavy-handed than usual. It's about catharsis. Changing. Again.