I'm Surrounded By Flames

I have come to find that I am not as productive as I'd like to be in my new studio and surroundings. However, I try to find comfort in the idea that perhaps I've found a new quality over quantity. Painting abstract work for the sheer sake to be abstract has lost its entire luster. It almost seems that the more I have learned about painting, the more it has worked against me. The thrill of not knowing I was making "mistakes" when I first took up painting has now been trumped by my new seasoned critical eye analyzing every brush stroke. I often find myself in the studio not painting but, looking at my past work longing for the zeal of that novice painter.

"Painting is easy when you don't know how, but very difficult when you do." -Edgar Degas

As I scrape at the bottom of my bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats I take a moment from typing these words to reflect. The last few over saturated oat flakes in an unsweetened vanilla almond milk form tea fortune shapes against my spoon. Half finished art work lean against the studio walls beckoning and taunting me each time I look around. I flip the canvases the other way to keep them from piercing me with their stare and defiance. The only thing that keeps me from screaming the neighbors awake is the thought that I am on to something different. It forces me to slow down and allow the medium to nurture itself as it dries and fights its own inertia. Like the alchemist I must charm my thoughts and my actions. To allow myself to give love and be receptive to love. My Muse craves romance. Romance is the precursor to seduction.

A painter should never stray from the exercise of experimentation. But it is even more essential for an artist to understand and recognize when he has found his very own personal technique. There comes a time when he must take a step back from the wreckage and appreciate the body parts as they lie. The cicada nymph molt of Imitation is only found in the cruel light of day. That dreaded Imitation of himself that has plagued his artistic individuality for so long for the sake of staying in a safe recognizable mental plateau. The eve of summer is afoot! Hail the Demon of the riot times! The cicada song beckons my left hand and their tymbal organ kettledrum my right brain awake!

"Almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the Imitation of those whom we cannot resemble." -Samuel Johnson

A metamorphosis should be painful and long. My knees swell and burn. My elbows creak and pop. My spine grows more and more misaligned. All I have is a scoliosis shaped memory of my past as I churn in the juices of imago. But I press on and work. Seep and struggle in the joy and misfortune of being an artist. I take it two steps back at a time and choke at the mere sliver of success. And as I stare in the mirror of my artistic reflection I can only hope the vampire within does not see himself.

*Canvas as it progressed*

"Veronica's Veil"
*Oil paint, pencil, charcoal and spackling paste*

|| Painting Detail ||

There are times when I look back at my work and wonder how I even created it. How often I contemplate if the butterfly worm ever considers that it's new set of wings were inside him the whole time. Hindsight is not twenty-twenty as I never reflect upon anything. But I can be something different, only this time in a whole new body.

"I've noticed that when people are joking they're usually dead serious, and when they're serious, they're usually pretty funny." -Jim Morrison