A sleepless night of stomach agony. In the early morning sleep I dreamt I was in a room at my old primary school, or possibly a country house. Outside, in what looked like the play area, three pigeons were strutting and pecking. One was pecking violently; smashing his beak into the floor and hard stones quite alarmingly. At one point he smashed down hard at a flint stone and it shattered, causing blade-like shards to fly in all directions. One of the other pigeons was injured by these, with two or three large gashes on its human-like fleshy leg. I rushed out to help, and started to clean and dress the wound with water and 'Steri-Strips'. One wound there, older yet still bloody, was crudely stitched with white cord. I was shocked at the behaviour of the violent pigeon and turned to look at him. For the first time I saw that he was in a far worse state, lying motionless and in pain, his purple flesh covered with bleeding wounds.
Today I filed Prometheus and examined yesterday's frame. It had a few splits in the wood, so I experimented with developing a solvent-based wood filler which might work for fine art or craft applications. Something water-based would swell the wood, and it must ideally not be chalky or white, but transparent or and easily toned. I made two tests with sawdust and picture varnish (an acrylic resin) and Paraloid resin. Both set hard, perhaps too brittle to sand, but looked excellent with stain, a perfect colour match. I think the Paraloid B-72 would be best.
The splits were too fine to be filled, so I used a syringe to inject wood glue and clamped the frame shut. This did the job wonderfully. In the afternoon, I painted the Kratos sculpture brown, an under-layer. I need to do more. I need a gallery to show and sell my work. My paintings really need to be seen in real life.
I was reminded that I have an unfortunate phobia of art galleries. My first experience of entering one, years before I painted, my digital computer prints in hand, was so negative, the proprietor so critical and aggressive towards me that I felt like killing myself upon leaving in utter dejection. This, at the time where the my game publishers were stealing from me and being equally abusive, became a catalyst for me to ignore all third parties and isolate myself from the cruel world. It took many years, and a whole new life, before I entered a gallery again, the Silver Star in Chester, to quite a different and instantly positive experience. Every other place of exhibition has been due to an open competition, invitation, or personal booking. Now though, I need a gallery.
I must work harder. Time is short. Life is short. Onwards we battle.
