You don't know what love is. . .

Painting in progress. . .

To say I've been in the weeds is a huge understatement.  I have willingly plunged myself right into the deep end. . .again.  It's only January!  Yet deep down inside I know (maybe hope!) there's a "gaggle" of  benefits to be gleaned from this exercise in the art of portraiture - in the quest of capturing a quiet moment in time.  I have been working long hours on this painting, attempting to reach the summit whereupon intuitive satisfaction begins the slow creep in.  Instead, I pace, scratch, sigh, wonder, look, look, look.  Adding and subtracting has been my MO - edit is my middle name.  I was going to do this simpler - I swear, really.  But the heart of me can't stay away from and falls back upon its beloved and practiced currency - DETAIL.   

 

My process involves layers of paint and there are so many areas of this painting that have only received the slightest glance, the barest minimum of attention.  It's so far from being recognized by my eyes that I can only shyly glance its way when passing through the studio.  It doesn't mean I'm not attracted to it.  That's obvious. . .I started this flirtation.  But I'm ready to move on to the next step.  Today I'm taking a break from the oil paint pheromones swirling in my studio. . .I'm going to lunch with a Florida friend.  Hoping fresh eyes and a new morning (tomorrow) will bring a glimmer of puppy love.  

 

Some say it's all about love - and you'll get no argument from me that it's pure love to squeeze out paint and begin with a fresh idea that resonates.  But we all know love can be messy if not tended.  (Sincere apologies to the men in my past.)  So I will "tend" to this painting after a day of giving it no attention whatsoever.  Send me your good karma and blessings. . .please. 

 

I'll leave you with Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poem.  Do you think it odd that an artist, devoted to his or her craft, thinks of "art" when reading this - thinks of their love of process, of creating?  The love of painting. . .

 

"How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise .

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints - I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death."