I’d gone off with a painting undone, and now back in the studio I just couldn’t reconnect. So ever forward and this is where it stands. A troweled layer of Zinc White over Titan Buff over past imperfect. Calling my tool of choice a trowel is a bit of a misnomer. Actually it’s a seven-inch long, by inch and a quarter wide pallet knife, and I enjoy wielding it both for the large swathes of pigment I can lay down, and for the random regions it leaves untouched. I favor layers of transparent color, allowing the history of a image’s development to show through. It’s here where it begins again, on the bones of past endeavors.
Yesterday morning, Molly and I were playing frisbee in the park, and I came across this patch of ground cover that captures what just might be the essence of the color green, and I couldn’t resist sharing.
July has arrived on skates and we’re firmly ensconced in the heart of summer. While the Sonoran sun bleaches color into lovely pale hues, my thoughts turn to finding respite in water. Deep cool water. Inspired by avian puddle hijinks, I channel my own desires onto canvas.
I’m spoiled. In twenty thirteen the muse sang loud and clear, guiding my hand at every turn. Twenty fourteen . . . not so much. Even though my research has unearthed many new splendors, those moments aren’t being easily translated into paint. I seem to be trying to cram everything into one thing, and it just isn’t working. So I turn to blue. Washes of Anthraquinone, layer on layer, scraping down in between, obscuring the too much, revealing the just enough. A hole in the ice.