On the weekend my son and brother moved about half my storage space out. A solid pine queen-sized bedframe in pieces, a dismantled swinging couch for a backyard, an old stereo system with speakers that still works, a workout bench in its box, a functional old laser printer with an unwrapped toner, things no longer needed or there isn't room for. They cleared enough space for me to set up a small painting area so that I can work right away if I have the gumption. Once the remaining dozen or so boxes are unpacked, there will be no excuse anymore: it's heated; there's a tiny window for ventilation; next door is the laundry room with a big sink for washing brushes (I use water-based oils, so clean-up is easy); the lighting's nothing, but there
are clamp lamps and full spectrum bulbs...
I paint on the floor, whenever I can summon the courage to let it go, or when I manage a zen-like state. It's always a risk. It's the most nerve-wracking thing I do.
Once the canvas is dry, I can move it upstairs where there is light in excess and work on an easel.
Some of my best paintings have been done when it's almost dark and I can barely see what I'm doing. It's not about the amount of light but the state of mind.
I'll try to take a photo later and add it to this post.
Later: Ok, so 4. And so what if they're a bit silly. You get the picture.
My doggy wondering.
Fun wall shot. Oh, whateva, then.
What's still to do. Sort of Arrgghhhh....
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