Finally, the insistent call of the outside world drags us away and we close the studio door on that tangled grid-locked mess of paint, hope, and self-belief. As we square up to the dishwasher and the dusting that secret smile is now a nagging sense of dread. Am I good enough? Why can’t I figure this out? I’ve killed my precious ….
When I was growing up there was no such thing as a ‘why’. Well, we didn’t know we all had one or at least there was no drive to examine our motives and find out. I remember doing quite a lot of motive examination directed by the nuns – but I always fell short and found myself counting down to the next confessional to cleanse my soul.
When I was 11 it was my legs, in my teens it was my freckles, my boobs – or lack of, my teeth, certain aspects of my parents, our religion and the family car. In my 20’s still the boob thing, lack of career direction and my inability to hook a decent man. My 30’s saw the concern about the man intensify.. In my 40’s it was a general lack of organisation, uncontrol of my two young children – (yes, I managed to find myself a man.) My 50’s has been all about my internal thermometer control and sleep – both far too erratic. What has all this got to do with Abstract Painting?
