In my dreams I often find myself in front of a very large canvas holding an equally large palate knife. I smooth the paint along and it flows like soft frosting. The room is quiet; the only sounds are the scratch of the knife as it moves along the canvas and that of my breath. The act of painting itself seems effortless and natural--graceful even, with movements akin to a waltz. I am meant to do this.
Maybe I've watched the Gerhard Richter documentary too many times, who knows, but seriously, this a recurring dream. I'm not questioning whether I know what I'm doing or not; I'm just painting. If only that state of mind would follow me into my waking hours! I have at least 6 encaustic paintings started and I'm stalled, which is why I've been allowing myself some cold wax time. It's kind of like the buttery paint of my dreams!
My first layers....
I image not much of the red will remain-just hints perhaps, but it's just the beginning and like Plato says, it's the most important part of the work. Surely not for it's great beauty, but rather for the process; for the seed of yourself that is exposed and implanted before your brain and ego get involved.
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