Monday, December 22, 2008
Between The Lines
A Sunday alone in the studio, bent low over a painting, acrid enamel fumes burning my throat. I reinforce the crisp black line-work between wide areas of color. I hold a Diet Coke can, cut in half and filled with paint. I immerse the tip of my brush in it briefly before each stroke, wiping the excess from it on the side of the tin. The last thing I want is bubbles or clots: each application has to be crisp and consistent, as if stenciled by machine. After a couple of hours, my arm aches and my eyes are sore. I long to stretch, to breathe clean ocean air and feel its saline fizz purge my poisoned lungs. I wish it could also dissolve my persistent deep depression.