Nothing clever, intelligent, funny or wise is surfacing as I ponder this painting I am posting. I wonder of its relevance, of a single thread to connect it to some event or element happening in my life and I cannot. And this is the reason I find it hard to call myself an artist. Seems like art should have meaning. Doesn’t it? I am more aptly described as some ancient form of camera, someone who can portray what she sees. Is this enough to be an artist?
My inner artist child is being stifled as I speak.
Acrylic on Masonite 12″x12″
The photograph of the painting makes the paint look metallic, which it is not. Technical problems in my life today keep me from caring too little to fix it.
View my faux batik post to see how I created the background.