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.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Not erveryone is the same, thank the Universe!
I signed up for a pastel class. My thought process said, well, I taught myself this medium, and since I knew nothing about it when I started, maybe I still know nothing and there is much to learn. (Actually, I had a book, and tried a lot of stuff before settling on the style I now employ.) The baby artist in me said there is much to learn, little one. And this very French guy is a renowned artist. Surely he knows more than I? So I bought the sanded paper, which I had tried before and was pretty unimpressed, made lots of dust under my heavy hand. And, yes, I made mounds of dust. I chose to do a self portrait, since I was the only subject at hand. No, this isn't it, it is still unfinished. What, you say? More than one session on a painting? Yes, French guy is pretty picky picky. And, yes, it looks like a painting. A kind of very smooth version of cowwoman. Nuts. I like my toothy paper. I like the fact that you can tell it is not a painting. I like the challenge of layering the pigments for dimension. And I did this as my computer geek guy was hooking up my new CPU. No more games of Freecell waiting for the Internet to graciously appear on my monitor. Patience is not my virtue, guys. And I love this guy. The buck, I mean. Also love the geek, and if anyone needs one of those, I know where to find him.