I return to it today, kinda stumped, thinking, I don't have a clue.
Yesterday's exercise doesn't feel complete. That's as much as I know.
I am hesitant, at a loss.
I sit until eventually I feel more comfortable with I don't know. I reach for paint. Mess about. Get more venturesome. Wreck—without meaning to—parts of my painting that I'd liked. Fiddle with wax pastels. Create some softnesses that appeal to me. Go back to paint. Move over to ink. Shift to oil pastels.
I feel the energy of incubation.
And now, this piece—this exercise, really; this stretching and lifting and breathing—feels complete. I think I know more than when I began, even though I don't know what that might be.
Lines from Cynthia Voigt's novel A Solitary Blue pop into mind:
This had been the pattern
of his days on the back creek, too:
he would move the boat out
until he felt more frightened
than he had the courage to match;
then he would anchor
|Days on the Back Creek|
8x10", acrylic, wax pastel, ink, oil pastel on poster paper
[not for sale]