I haven’t felt much like writing the past few days, so I decided to paint.
I’m not any big painter. My grandmother painted, my grandfather liked to draw, and my own father draws too, but I didn’t get whatever gene allows you to translate a picture in your head through your hand and onto paper or canvas. I’ve tried. I even took a drawing class at uni, but it didn’t take. So I never even bothered trying to paint until I was in grad school, and even then it was completely by accident. My then fiancé had a bit of canvas with a drawing inked on it that he wanted to get rid of, so I painted over it. And enjoyed doing it. Even if the final result was no great bit of art (though I’ll admit I’m fond of it).
Still, I haven’t painted anything in years. But I got the itch to do it again, so this weekend I went to the craft store and bought some canvas and paints and brushes. I use acrylics. I’ve tried watercolors, but I don’t like how they bleed; I prefer to have a bit more control over the art. I think this is one of the reasons I’m a writer—control issues. But that’s another discussion entirely.
Anyway, today I prepped two of the four canvases. I don’t have a roller, and I don’t think I’d use one even if I did have it. I like doing the brush work by hand.
None of these are finished yet. This is just the start for them. And I’m not thinking I’m some great prodigy. I have no background in art, have taken no art history classes. I just paint for my own well-being, because it soothes me when I can’t write.