nowordsnecessary

Before I moved, I remember talking to Jill about how I was a bit nervous about leaving certain things behind. Those things were my paints. I hadn't had time for them much beyond class, so I wasn't sure if they would be, well, practical in my new life, especially with the intentions of graduate school...for business.

Alas, I decided that they didn't take up much space and that they needed to come with me. Thank goodness. A good decision.

As I settled in to my new apartment, I realized early that I had plenty of table-space. An extra dresser sits behind my door with nothing in it but shoes and unused clothes hangers, and the top lay completely vacant. It didn't take long to imagine what it would become, and I immediately sat my paint bag on it. After staring at it for a few days, I got up the nerve to just do it--my last step for settling in: making a mess. (Okay, let's not get too crazy; it's an organized mess.)

After hanging up the drawing that my little cousin colored (and signed!) for me at our pit-stop in Montana on the drive out, I arrayed my paintbrushes in the woven basket from Kim "to put your art stuff in!", and I opened the toolbox of doom! (I say "doom" for two reasons: 1) it's so full of so many random things--knitting needles, charcoal, thread, pastels, sculpture tools, etc.--that it doesn't quite close and 2) several of those many random things are quite sharp; it's not a box to just stick your hand in blindly--X-acto blades and screwdrivers will snag you every time. Regardless, I opened the toolbox, lined up my acrylics and watercolors on the shelf, arranged my paper and easel, and I was open for business.

I looked at my paintbrushes. They stared right back like puppies at the pound, Pick me! Pick me!, they all seemed to cry. I squirted some paint on my palette paper and got to work. After sketching and trying not to erase and erasing and putting the first paint on the canvas, ahhh, it was like baking a pie. It takes a little while to roll the crust out right, but once you get into the groove and find your rhythm: art. 

I've been stuck on this black-and-white portrait phase for a while now. I've also been really itching to paint this wonderful photograph of Salvador Dalí, my favorite Spanish painter (sorry, Picasso). He's so quirky, and I love it. So I had to get this painting out of my system; it's been brewing for so long.

The set-up of the image allowed it to be done in three simple sessions without worrying about paint being soft enough to blend if I left it too long. I started at the top, painting his hair, down to his left eye, and the shapes of the magnifying glasses. The next session, I did the insides of the glasses, his chin, and his coat. Finally, today I finished the background, the table, and a few touch-ups and details. 

Sometimes I haven't felt it the way that people say artists should. Sometimes I have been more frustrated by the process than anything. Today, I was fully there. I wish that I could describe it without becoming sentimental, but it overwhelmed me: the blending of two simple pigments to slip across the page in loose strokes.

I was standing. I was listening to Modest Mouse. My room was dim in the yellowed dark of the basement, and I had a desk lamp over the easel. A paintbrush in each hand, sometimes in my mouth as if dancing a tango, sometimes at the edges of my teeth, like a nervous test-taker, I stared him down. He stared back. I swayed and pivoted and leaned, and he just stared back. 

And I think, oddly, this was what I've been needing. Someone to just stare at me, under close examination, and inspect who or what I am: take a long look and then be silent. No words necessary.