I saw a photo on Instagram the other day from a French watercolorist that sort of rearranged my gray matter in a violently explosive way.
(Only you would try to cover up a cliche phrase in such clumsy way. You embarrass me.)
Good. You needed something to do. I gave you the opportunity. We're even.
Anyway, I headed for my work table intending to give her technique a go. Only thing is... when I sat down with a rather large chunk of watercolor paper, I choked at the last moment and grabbed something much smaller and less intimidating.
Then I proceeded to practice the technique I had seen on her YouTube channel. [Jenny Illustrations]
I was very happy with my results:
However, compared to her skill, I am a grasshopper.
I was left with this weird ... 'this is nice, but not great'.... feeling.
I went back and started to dig through her information on materials that she uses etc. And found out that not only is she a VERY accomplished watercolorist, but she is using rarified watercolor papers and hand crafted watercolor paints too!
This made me feel better, but also makes one face up to certain facts about art. I'm beginning to think that it's not about the end result so much as the doing. The making. The process of trying something new. The path.
Now don't get me wrong. It's nice to end up with something that makes you smile. But the thing that can't be observed or examined or measured afterwards is how you felt while you were creating the thing... whatever it is that you were making. It's the transient and beautiful state of being. Some call it 'the zone', some call it 'flow'. And while it is enormously enjoyable, if I am honest I would have to say it's also filled with terror. Like walking on a tightrope over a breathtaking vista that can only be seen while you are in the midst of your creative endeavor, whatever that may be for you.
I used to hope that the terror would go away once I had painted enough paintings. Now I'm pretty sure it never will. I have to come to terms with that. And the fact that the very next painting may well be destined for a date with Bruce.
Which is exactly what happened.
I cannot bear to show you. It's just between me and Bruce. And Bruce tells no tales and leaves no trace.
I love Bruce. He knows how fragile artists are.
When I toss something into his firebox, he gives me a reassuring and warm embrace and says....
"We won't speak of it again."
It's good to have such an understanding friend.
(Good God woman. You realize you are talking about a wood stove don't you? What is wrong with you?)
Quite a lot actually. But once in a while, I get to be brilliant.
Once in a while.
