warning: this one has the swears.
Sometimes I do things so tremendously stupid that I stare back at them slack-jawed as a thin trail of foamy spittle makes a trail down my chin. For instance, not painting for months. Months. The last time I slung mud was the end of this past December. I've been living in an apartment best described as small. This has limited my opportunity to paint to, um, no opportunities. Unless, of course, I didn't mind a bit of asphyxiation (not even the erotic kind). I finally had enough though, and said, "Well, fuck you brain cells, I don't need you," tossed open my tiny window, and busted out the pallet.
Goddamn, it feels so good. Orgasmic. I forgot how much I love this thing I do. I went for about five hours without stopping. It was sweet.
(feel free to take that last paragraph out of context)
Anyway, here are the goods. One is the first couple of passes at a copy of the portrait of Cornelius Van der Geest by Anthony Van Dyck. The other one is the first coat of a picture of a awesome old photo I found online. Nothing says 'Merica like a nine-year-old girl with Old Glory and a Glock. Don't worry, her legs aren't as freakishly stunted as they look in the photo.
Here's the setup:
3 comments:
Bedside Painting = Pure Fucking Dedication. Similar to sharing a studio with Shawn Barber's 4am painting crazy ass - "I'll tell you when you sleep!"
Painting anywhere in that apartment is Bedside painting. I was messing around with a rag a whole bunch on the Van Dyck, and every time I would wipe off a bit I would think, "What does that do?" *wipe a bit more* "But, then what does that do?"
"Shawn, it's like four in the morning man."
"You shut your filthy mouth. This is my time. My Time!
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