The Reason

Ah. I understand now.

I painted the other day. I found myself with some time after work so I wandered over to Pearl Paint, a quiet, popular, art store nestled deep between street vendors and pedestrian traffic on Canal Street. In high school, this would have been a necessary trip at the start of every semester; with at least 2 separate lists of required supplies in hand, I would slowly tread the aisles and chew my lip over brands and practicality (did I really need Black? Wasn't it Cadmium Red and Hooker's Green that made a better shadow? How much of a palette could I afford on $30, and would a new brush fit into the budget?). I would grin sheepishly and lift my brows in a silent, faux-panicked greeting as I passed by new and familiar classmates, not yet willing to dive into a superficial or obligatory conversation.

After all these years, the feel was different. As much as I would have loved to run back upstairs, to trail my fingertip against rows and rows of striped tubes boasting quiet labels of color and name, I only had about 20 minutes before the store closed. Working until 6 every day makes you feel like the world is always fleeting. It's always closing time, you better come prepared with a list and a plan.

I made a mental note to go back and rummage (indeed -- being poor caused our family to develop packrat tendencies. Hey, you never know when you'll need that cardboard box full of shopping bags, wires, duct tape and sofa cushions) through the house for my old paints. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll uncover a brush or two; otherwise I'll have to return another night. I hopped downstairs to a floor I was almost unfamiliar with -- here, bathed in industrial gray flourescent light, were walls and walls of canvases varying in size, thickness, purpose and color. Momentarily overwhelmed, I blinked. I did not come with a list, nor a plan.

I had to pass the most appealing canvases wistfully -- girl does not have that kind of money -- and head to the thin stretched, lightweight canvases I used to purchase for Intro classes. It's been a very, very long time since I've bought one of my own. I borrowed these things in high school -- old artwork donated from friends, for me to paint over. I used the same two canvases for a couple of years. You make do with what you got, lol.

I splurged, maybe. I bought 2 low quality canvases and a pack of 3 canvas boards, and I trudged them through the rest of Chinatown to meet up with a friend. Admittedly I felt tres NYC, in my cork heels with white polka-dots over cornflower-blue fabric, tied around my ankles into a bow. *Flaunt*

After partaking in a hastily rolled joint and a few episodes of The Girls Next Door (not having cable allows me to appreciate the, ah, finer things in life), I got on the train for the long journey home. Drowsy, but not sleepy. I slipped through my doors, kicked off my shoes, lay the bag of canvases down in front of the mirror. I flopped into bed with my eyes closed.

Insomnia kicked in, right on time. Instead of lying still, waiting until the informercials on screen bored me enough to start dozing, I jumped up and poked around for my acrylics. Not wanting to waste hours looking for these paints, I pulled out a metal suitcase, one of those cheesy (this one was pretty hardcore, though) art kits dedicated to blossoming child prodigies. One side housed a rainbow of color pencils and sharpeners, the other displayed markers and a section of watercolors. Shrugging, I decided to try something new. The canvas will not absorb any of the watercolor, but hey, it's been about four years. Let's just play with shading, huh?


This is actually a color piece, in shades of pink, orange and yellow; there is also a watermark over the image. I'm too shy, or untrusting, to show you the real thing. Cheers :)


I stayed up till 6am dabbing at the canvas, reacquainting myself with the way colors formed when you layered purple over orange, pink over yellow. I didn't take this drawing seriously, because it was kind of a tester. Too bad it came out so nice.

It didn't feel the same for me, for many reasons. One, it was done on the floor of my tiny, dirty room. The carpet made a home in my ass, leaving wonderful imprints that took 2 days to disappear, deep after 3 hours of sitting. I had no easel, no chair. Two, it was done with watercolor and not acrylic; the colors faded dramatically after being laid down, the details withdrew and had to be layered heavily.

Most importantly, there wasn't the same level of release. I know why art doesn't do it for me anymore. I grew up, but my methods didn't update to reflect it.

Cause I'm doing better now, don't mean I never lost shit
I was married to a state of mind and I divorced it

Before, my release came from the joy in creation. I never knew what I was going to end up with when I first touched the pencil to the surface. My thoughts found a stillness that could not be emulated with drugs, sex, or sunlight. There was a different kind of focus that zeroed in on the line, the direction, the diagonal, the form; thus, the end product carried a delicious satisfaction, no matter how finished the drawing was. More often than not, it would remain a rendering, that was its final answer.

Even with my blogs, my poetry, my writing -- I'd dive in without outline, theme or character. I wouldn't look up or breathe until the bowels of my mind emptied. And the outcome was always amazing.

I lived that way. I dove in without pattern, plan or glance towards consequence. I merely lived, focused on the journey more than the destination, and ended up happy wherever I ran out of breath. While I still have that tendency, life is proving to me that I can no longer continue doing what I do. I have to have steps now. A goal to focus on.

I realized when painting that watercolor sketch that there wasn't the same level of satisfaction in the process. I was disgruntled, my hands tried to take the image into too many directions, I ended up doing too much and ruining the piece without finishing it first. There was no linear Blank to my thoughts, no escape, no relief. It became a project I wasn't ready for. I realized that I needed something more concrete -- a photo to work off of, to build off of, to remix. However, I know that I don't want to simply imitate someone else's image. I want to set up my own scenes, my own backgrounds, my own stories. My own human still lifes. And then I will paint them. I will give myself guidelines.

I do love how the sketch came out. There's nothing more I can do to it, because my mind has run out of suggestions. It is perfect the way it is. However, it is still incomplete, and that leaves me feeling unsettled. I have no more room for open endedness in my life, it's time to upgrade myself.