That’s usually a statement that precedes my slamming on my brakes, and occasionally the squeal of tires before the sound of metal and glass becoming one with the local flora.
Tonight? Tonight it precedes something else entirely.
I did things today. Worked, shopped, and — God help me– cleaned. It wasn’t like I was looking for things to do at nine-thirty pm. But I found myself sitting on my couch, looking at a wall with some poorly hung pictures on it, and thinking to myself, “What I would really like right in that spot is a big painting of a tree.”
Next thing I know I have a spare canvas and a fist full of paintbrushes set up in my basement. (And I honestly can’t tell you if the last time I put brush to canvas was this time last year, or two years ago. It really could have been two years ago.)
And an hour later, I had this:
I took a picture, had full intentions of quitting, and an hour after that:
(Ew, I had a feeling that picture came out fuzzy. Squint at it a little, you’ll get the idea.)
Not so fuzzy, but with not so good color: (And oddly small… why? Who knows.)
Needs dimension in the foilage. I know it. I’m getting there.
Tecnically I’m really not a patient enough person to work with oils, but I like getting high of the turpentine… so sue me.
I’m not exactly sure where the tree came from. It just kind of came.
It just kind of came with a disproportionate length of trunk to foliage.
It just kind of came in sepia tones.
It just kind of came with hills.
It’s weird, this tree. But it feels really good.
