Something finally floated into my head, formed a vague picture and said, let's do this. Sheesh! I get a bit restless when I don't have a painting on the go. In no uncertain terms, she told me her name was Freedom.
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The first sketch/block in is always a little scary. It's going to be OK, honest. |
RESTLESS! You know those days when you really want to get into something, become engaged and productive, loose track of time. I open all the drawers, take stuff out that appeals, put it back because I don't know what to do with it, try and sort things out, organize the studio so it works better, soon give up on that (if only I had those big envelopes from Office Depot I could make files), I pace the floor, straightening the cover on the sewing machine. Finally I pack it in, walk out of the studio, go downstairs, and do the same thing all over again. That's been me for a little while now. Thought it was perhaps the effects of the full moon and it could be.
The other day I sat down to make post cards. Yes, I said to myself, just make a few different ones, photocopy them and keep them on hand. They'll be nice when you don't have time to write a long letter. Well, this was the result of that brain wave. When you are restless and something doesn't turn out to your satisfaction, it seems twice as bad. Today I attempted Halloween tags. Huuummmmph! Into the bin they went. Who decided purple was a Halloween colour anyway? May tomorrow be a better day. :o)
I'm just listening to the theme from Schindler's List. It breaks my heart every time I listen to it, and somehow it fills me with such joy and love, I can't stop listening to it. It's the violin. It speaks to every cell in my body. It's from a thirty-seven track album called Classical Heartbreakers, all of which I adore.
Well my darlin's, thanks so much for coming by for a visit and leaving your delicious comments. Art for art's sake! xoxo
Donna
“My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while. […]. I'm two, and both keep their distance — Siamese twins that aren't attached.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet