I used to be a painter. When I lay awake at night, I would think about the next composition or which piece I would enter in an upcoming show. When I went shopping, I would pine for little tubes of squishy paint in Sepia or Prussian Blue and haul home huge, awkward sheets of mat board and full-size pieces of watercolor paper. The work was urgent and terrifying and breathless, and just one stroke too many could ruin a piece. But when you came through making all the right decisions, the end result was magical and satisfying.
I'm starting to find my way back to that place after losing inspiration, experiencing some disappointments in my work, feeling disillusioned with the gallery world and selling my art for profit. Stroke by stroke, I'm starting to find excitement again in the possibilities. I'm hoping you'll see more paintings here in the next few weeks. The palette sitting on my dining room table in the sunshine is a welcoming site.
