I notice I become increasingly inarticulate when it comes to talking about my painting, almost as if I don’t want it to be infected by words. Words can sully a painting and cling to it and drag it down.
A few painters have a gift for words as well as paint. Francis Bacon is one of those:
“The creative process is a cocktail of instinct, skill, culture and a highly creative feverishness. It is not like a drug; it is a particular state when everything happens very quickly, a mixture of consciousness and unconsciousness, of fear and pleasure; it’s a little like making love, the physical act of love.”
Yeah. Like he said.
Starting a new set of paintings is a strange experience. I look at works I’ve completed as if somebody else painted them. How did I get there? Although I thought them up, I applied the paint, it seems that I’m helpless to answer.
I have 7 canvases set up in my little studio ready to go and I’m stalling.