I brought this painting home Sunday before last and, as though she'd been drawn to it, my daughter planted her finger right on a scratch I'd thought I'd aptly disguised. Harrumph.
The painting asks what the relationship might be between the boats. I hope the tension comes across.
I received some compliments from classmates on this one. A stranger in the parking garage asked where I'd bought it. One person thought the different styles of brushstrokes didn't work together. Another thought they did. My husband disliked the bottom boat. Someone else really liked the sky. And so on.
I guess there's no consensus when it comes to art. No truth everyone has figured out except me. Tastes are pretty whimsical. What someone appreciates in my work maybe says more about them than it says about my work. I don't particularly like this painting. I didn't like the one before it, and someone bought that one.
My teacher told me I do good work. Compliments feel amazing, especially from someone like Blair Paul, but no one can tell me what to do next because they don't know either. The only thing is to keep going.
I couldn't find any open studio space for the spring and there weren't any courses that appealed to me. So I'm on my own again. No bus, no class and only vague ideas as to what to do. This is the kind of uncomfortable-at-the-time moment you look back on and think -- awesome. What's next?