A friend and I were having a short conversation about my frustration in art. How its something that I need to do, but become frustrated at myself for not following the image in my addled mind. I'm sure we all do this as artists. Halfway through a painting, we realize we made a wrong turn and can't stand ourselves for making such an obvious mistake. Now its too late and cannot be remedied, so the paper/canvas gets tossed aside like an old broken child's toy to gather dust on a shelf for future generations to wonder at. I have a closet full of these pieces. None of them good enough for me. None of them I can ever bring myself to view again. Hell, I can't even stomach seeing some of my "finished" work most of the time.
Its a "damned if you do, damned if you don't" situation ... this whole art process. If I don't paint now, the lack of work eats at me from the inside. If I do paint, the act frustrates me incessantly. I hadn't quite remembered the intensity of these emotions, and am much more understanding of why I quit so many years ago. But that blackness has never stopped building up within me and tearing at me. I must continue. I may not control it, but perhaps I can use it.
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