Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Wainting for that call from the MOMA...
Hell, if Joan Mitchell can hang there, why not I? Going in circles, figuratively and literally, it would seem. A long, long time ago, a friend recommended art therapy. All painting classes were filled, so I wound up in Low Fat Fiction, a writing class centered around economy of words, very fun, but also very cerebral, left brained as it were. This is all right brain, this messing around with paint. And it is best when there is no seminal idea associated with it. It is best when it just emerges from the action of palette knife and paint with the paper. You might notice that there is often more than one pigment on the knife at any given moment. This comes from the impatience of the painter, not wanting to stop to wipe off the knife before picking up that next pigment that just seems to belong right THERE. Wild and crazy woman, here, pushing my comfort zone, wanting to experience flying free of all the conventional art out there. I think this one is about rising out of the murk. At least its orientation at the moment suggests that. I think I actually painted it upside down. Ah, that is the beauty of abstraction, isn't it? Wouldn't it be heaven if I could view my life from the same perspective, better upside down than right side up?