Every painting takes away and gives. The taking from is always my fault, and should never be blamed on the art I’m trying to make.
I curse when my finger drags through chalky black pastel, forcing me to enter the always risky land of “removing.”
Each time I find paint smeared on the handle of a brush, or on the outside of my hand, which happens every single time I paint and should therefore be expected, I act as if an evil spirit has inhabited my studio for the sole purpose of keeping me from succeeding.
In the end, magically, all this taking doesn’t matter. I look at what I have done, and smile. Look, I think, even an over-emotional high-strung eccentric can make art. And then I thank art, for not caring about my deficiencies, for ignoring my imperfections, for inviting me back to the one place I have found that welcomes anyone willing to try.