I return to it after a breather and make some changes—add a bit of quinacridone gold, some more red, a measure of white gauzy veiling to the black-lined shapes—but the changes are barely perceptible, even to me, now that I look at them!
I realize I'm trying to make something out of what I see in front of me, trying to work with it. Too much brain, too little intuition.
Trying is the operative word. Maybe I could stop trying.
Maybe I could perceive this canvas, with its layers, as nothing more than ambient noise, something surrounding me as I open my front door and step into the wide outdoors. Yes, there are multiple sounds outside my door, but I can sing a song without having to find or follow any melody in the car motors, bird-chirping, footfalls, or voices and hammer-bangs of roof carpenters.
I can just sing whatever song comes from inside me.
OK, I've got a little improv going here. Liking the tune. Liking that the roof carpenters are banging out some syncopation, a recycling truck a little bass!
I add ink scribbles; tendrils; color blocking with reddish, bluish, yellowish; masking with white.
More scribbles, oil pastels, some black.
8x8", acrylic, ink, and pastels on canvas paper