A second glazing day and a time for checked floors. I recall seeing a wonderful painting by Dorothea Tanning where a checked floor bulged up into a cloak that wrapped a woman turning a wheel that drove a fantastical machine. Despite the intellectual complexity of that painting I know exactly what Dorothea was thinking when she painted it. She thought "bloody checks!"
Mine were less in number but still tiresome. In the wet and vaporously thin yellow-white glaze smoothed over the underpainting with the soft and ultradelicate touch of the fur from a cuddly baby chickling, I added some "marble veins" after looking at some marble to accustom myself to the look.
The painting might be going well but the psychology is notably haphazard. Yesterday I was struck with a depression and feelings of loneliness that naturally stem from being locked away every day. Last night I had five wonderful dreams which were the most lucid and beautiful I've ever experienced and the control and mastery I had in that pellucid explicit and hyperchromatic universe was quite enough to raise my spirits from insecure wreck to god-painter. Today was just fine and tonight, as the mood of this ramble indicates, is fineplus.
The downside to an art group that meets on Wednesdays is my very lack of weekends. Not that I ever did much at weekends, but still. Thus far in my extraordinary existence I've worked just about all day every day for 20 years and, when negative, consider that I've gained little but a frisson of insanity and Hegellian philosophical skills. Tonight though I am a hyperoptimist, and I expect two good pieces of news in the middle of next week. I don't know what or why, I just had an inkling about it at 6am.
