I don’t generally consider myself the type of person who has an ego-problem. I like to think, even, that I am somewhat humble, or at least I try to be. However, every now and then I think that someone, somewhere, with some say in the matter, decides to send me a little insurance to keep it that way. That is, every once in a while I set out to work on a painting and I am struck by how utterly and terribly awful I am.
I currently have a goal to have a couple new (smaller) paintings ready by Easter weekend to deliver to the shop, and so tonight I planned to really dig in and get some work done. I think that I actually did the visual world a great disservice tonight, as every time my brush touched the canvas I made the world a little bit uglier. I am not exaggerating. Frustrated, I picked up my sketchbook and an odd assortment of mark-making tools (red sharpie, black prismacolor, graphite pencil and some scrap-booking pen) and found that the only thing I was able to do was scribble, outline those scribbles in red, and then scribble some more. I was a kindergartener. Maybe younger.
Earlier today I had a training for work and spoke with another woman who is also an artist. She got me very excited about possibly collaborating on a mural this summer. My curiosity about murals has been mounting for a while now, so our conversation seemed fated, divinely placed, in some way. After tonight, though, I really must reconsider. I’m not talking about just reconsidering the mural idea, I’m talking about reconsidering it all. After tonight I think I should do everyone a favor and retire as a painter. Trust me on this.