So, last week I opened this box that has been sitting in my laundry room for the past five months. I resisted the temptation to take a look even though I knew what was inside - my mother's oil paints. Opening it was like opening the kind of gift that keeps on giving, the kind that you know will bring you hour after hour of enjoyment.
And what eye candy. Partially used tubes of paint in a vast color range, from different manufacturers, of different ages. The smell of linseed oil and turpentine. My senses went into automatic overload as I was overcome with the urge to see how they felt. I had never tried painting with oils and couldn't wait to give it a go.
That first night, I cranked out a little 8" x 8" loose looking landscape, and I liked it. Quick, expressive and easy.
So the next night, I thought I would retry my most recent failed reduction print, one which will likely never get posted here or made public on flickr. That week of my life was wasted and I'll never get it back. But I digress. The first night went well, and I enjoyed it. I was painting from a picture I took last year. The second night I was anxious to get started, but then, suddenly after an hour or so, it got boring. Yeah, I can look at a picture and paint it. It wasn't doing much for me at all.
I realized painting is not quite my thing. At least not this kind of painting. If I was going to do something plein air I would definitely go with these, but not for any kind of artwork that you work on for a while. I just don't feel any connection.
The next night I printed with them. Joy.