Last night I found mysefl staring at a blank canvas, pencil in hand. Shiner Blonde in the other. Took me a long while to come up with something in my head I wanted to paint. When I went with my pencil to sketch it out, I was frustrated by my complete lack of technical skills. I couldn’t put what was in my head onto the damn canvas. I can’t draw for Shite.
Not to say I know anything of the pain and suffering of stroke victims, but I can see how it must be very frustrating to have words or images stuck inside one’s head that you just can’t get out there.
Maybe it was the Shiner Blonde and the welling frustration, but I just said Fkk it all and started drawing who knows what. Scribbles a la Cy Twombly only thicker like Jackson Pollock. (I am *not* inviting any comparisons. No sir.)
I started with pencil and pen. I’ll add pastel color later. Then I’ll selectively take it up with cloth and eraser. Only to lay down another layer of incoherent artistic babblings. Maybe I’ll throw on some liquid paper, my bourgeois bohemian surprise ingredient of choice lately.
So I am stuck, as usual, in abstract mode. My conscious representational ideas are locked away behind my lack of training, and so I bypass, tapping directly into my unconscious. And the stuff pours out in a flow state. I hope something cool emerges from my incoherence, my impulse, my frustration.
My working title for this piece – “I can’t draw for shite but I’m fkking drawing anyway.”
Even though I know that “The bad paintings have to be painted” I hope this isn’t one of them.