Saturday, August 27, 2016
I woke up this morning wanting to actually do something, rather than thinking about doing something. I found this old flat canvas in my supplies. The background was already done. I kind of followed odd shapes in the paint (I think I'd covered over a mishap) and got this weird human-ish form. I cut out the shapes from dictionary pages and a copy of a map I had on hand.
The words came from a scathing letter I'd written and did not send. Well, I didn't send all the words. I ended up cutting the letter apart word by word, gluing parts of it back together to form sort of a collage. Then I mailed that part of the letter. The whole process was satisfying and might have kept me out of some legal trouble. The person to whom I was writing was not the one who needed to hear the words I was writing. He was in no position to address the problem I was writing about. It concerned an abuse of power. Abuse of power is an interesting and relevant topic in itself. But it wasn't the direction I intended to go this morning.
Here's the thing: I've been wanting to do some painting and mixed media type stuff. I read about it all the time. I have books about it. I have supplies. But it's so hard to sit down and start. I don't want to waste my supplies. I don't want to have work I'm not fond of when I'm done.
But here's the other thing: Practice makes progress. And I'm not going to make any progress at all if I make no attempt whatsoever. Sometimes you have to suspend all judgement and just try. Why are people so afraid to try? I'm not going to try and answer that question. I'm just here to say "This is what I did this morning, imperfect as it is. I tried."