#56 – Tuesday April 10th
This is where I begin, stretching my own canvases, and after all these years maybe not altogether perfect, but proficient at the task. I apply no ground so the first marks will haunt whatever comes after, their shadow the bones of composition, the arrow pointing forward. There’s a time, early on, when I tell my self to stop . . . it’s enough, but the hint of further exploration is a sirens song for a daub of pigment, another line, a scrape, or embellishment and the journey becomes a runaway train. But every now and again, I do just quit. This canvas, with a collection of thin lines, a smudge, and almost naked, is complete . . . at least for today.
Thanks for reading.