Apparently, my Art Withdrawal Syndrome is full blown. I am actually noodling off and imagining the feeling of a brush moving through buttery smooth oil paint. I miss it that much. And nothing less than oils will provide the necessary fix. Watercolor just doesn't give me the same tactile satisfaction, and while I will sometimes play with acrylics, they just do not get under my skin the way working in oil does.
So today, Kev helped me navigate the over-stuffed garage (my studio, which is now a shambles) and dig out my supplies. I transfered everything from my wheelbarrow, which is my makeshift taboret, into a large plastic toolbox, which Kev somehow managed to lift and drag into the house. Then I unburied my easel, and my last work in progress, and they joined the paints in the dining room.
I had vowed to give up my oils until Boyo was older, but I am losing my mind. So I will leave him in the baby-gated safety of the adjoining living room, and work in the dining room for now. Unfortunately, I am a slob of a painter. I generally wipe my brushes on my pants... I am going to have to change my habits to keep the babe safe...
Now I just have to mount another archaeological expedition to the closet in the Boy's room, which is where my canvases are crammed...
For some unknown reason, I am burning to do large scale absracts, even though I generally paint representationally...
At this point, it doesn't matter what I do, or even if it's good or not, so long as my fingers can feel that familiar old sensation of brush gliding through oil paint...
I think I may actually paint tomorrow! (I definitely will paint tomorrow if the little guy naps!)
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