Boxes of art supplies lie open around me. Some are viable still after all of these years. Others not so much. All of my artisan papers were tossed into a dumpster may lifetimes ago. Charcoal papers have yellowed and/or been confiscated for sillier (but quite essential) duties by my youngest son. I found two blank canvasses still worth keeping, while a few that had broken stretchers or torn faces. My contes, pencils, charcoal sticks are all in good shape. The oil pastels have seen better days. My favorite chalk pastels have been crushed and shattered over a couple of moves and a divorce. My ex may still have one of my easels in her garage, as I can't find it here. As for my paints? The gouaches held up surprisingly well. However my acrylics and oils can't seem to be opened, although the tubes themselves remain pliable.
I also came across a few holdouts from various shows and such. Paintings and drawings that for some reason were not destroyed by me in my typical rash depressive outbursts of self-torment and hate. But that hate still exists. I look at these now and wonder at the worthless ambitions I once had. All are reminders of tortuous hours in front of the mocking white space. Some won ribbons. Some were in the public eye for months. None could make me happy with myself. As part of my "therapeutic" return, I will post them over the next few days and then probably drink myself into a coma.
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