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The Delicious Obsession with the Relentless, Voracious, Prolific Madness of Creating Art
It’s 5am again.
Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I’d been trying to figure out what the next steps should be on my latest painting for the majority of the afternoon, coming up with nothing. Performing errands and household tasks in between staring at the canvas in 30 minute stretches. Intrusive thoughts of quitting for the day and just washing my brushes are creeping in, an impossible proposition. Getting focused was eluding me.
The chicken’s feet were all wrong, and the feathers on his back end blended in flatly against the background. Chicken feet also turned out to be way harder to paint than human feet! The novelty of a set of neon oil paints was turning into a struggle against their transparent nature. The painting had so many problems that I was completely stuck about where to start. My brain could only ruminate on organizing some future piece of work.
I’d gotten out of bed around midnight despite swearing up and down that an 11pm bedtime would improve my life. My partner sleeping soundly beside me, the entire world silent beyond the occasional car passing outside. All that exists is my exasperation with the half-painted abstract chicken on my easel. All the excuses that had clung to me in the daylight have gone dormant. Dishes done, the…
