Wednesday, September 27, 2006
I was getting impatient for the base coats to dry on a large enamel piece, so I started work on a new series of watercolours on paper. I am really bad at doing nothing.Putting down the first marks of a new work is always hell. I suffer a flood of anxiety and self-doubt, and the initial effort is always terrible. I try too hard. My lines are tight. I am hesitant about how and where to use the paint. I waste a lot of time pacing around instead of working. I have to force myself to finish the damn thing. Then I lie it face down and try to forget about it. When I'm not happy with my art, everything in my life is fucked. When it's going well, everything is perfect. It’s irrational and unpredictable, and it's downright unpleasant for everyone around me. I'm going to meet my boyfriend for a coffee. He is the only one who 'gets' the see-saw of my moods, and he usually manages to chill me out (he knows an awful lot about art, too). We're going to look for a book on David Hockney. I love the work of his that I’ve seen but I don’t know much about it. I’ve also been reading a lot about Picasso. I’ve needed to remind myself that even he re-worked his paintings constantly, that they didn't somehow materialise instantly as fully realised masterpieces.