I couldn’t stand it. I just couldn’t stand it. It had been weeks since I had even tried to paint anything and I was starting to feel as if I would never do it again. I opened up my Sta-wet palette and it had stayed wet enough to smell musty. Should I just dump the whole thing and start over?
Well, yes, I should have but the paint was still wet, doggone it. I didn’t want to start over. If I started over, I would get bogged down in preparations and never paint. I didn’t want to never paint. Never painting again seemed like a real possibility at that point. I had wet paint. I had tiny canvases. I had a back yard with plants in it. Somehow, I would paint something.
First, I grabbed a large brush and slapped some light green paint on a tiny canvas. Then I washed that brush and changed into my painting clothes (which are also my tie-dyeing clothes) while the green paint dried. I took my moldy palette, a container of water, a paper towel and two small brushes out to the back yard, along with the now-dry canvas.
I looked around. My husband had cleared the overgrown garden patch I had painted a few weeks ago, but there were still some of the tiny red flowers on the fence. I decided to paint a couple of those, along with some of the heart-shaped leaves. If I tried to pull up a chair, I would not be able to see the flowers I wanted to paint, so I decided to paint standing up. It was a tiny canvas. How hard could it be?
Pretty hard, actually. I didn’t have a table, so I ended up putting the palette and the container of water on the ground. Yeah. Bend down, grab some paint; stand up, brush the paint on the canvas. Squint at the flowers. Squint at the canvas. Bend down again, grab some more paint; stand up again, brush some more paint on the canvas. And so on, in the heat, for about an hour. It may look as if I slapped it together in ten minutes, but I didn’t. This tiny painting took some time.
This is what desperation looks like. It’s still better than never painting again.