Lately I have been adventuring with oil painting.
There's something about paints...especially oils and acrylics, that makes me unspeakably happy. The texture, the smell, the way they look, the way they glide on the canvas, which I find inspiring, joyous, lovely, and immensely pleasing. I could paint abstract messes for days, just to use the paints.
Because abstract messes are, indeed, what I create. I have never taken a proper art class in my life and have no idea what the correct way for painting with oils is. But I have a (nice) set of oil paints, and I have pretty much all the supplies I need, so I will make use of them. No matter how horrid I am.
So yesterday and today, I painted. I spent hours poring over my canvases, slapping paint around. And, inevitably, any painting endeavor for me, turns into finger painting. So there was more paint caked on my hands and mixed on the palette, than there was on the canvas paper.
And these are my two creations, the one on the left is from today and I'm still not done with details yet:
I know. They're really bad. I never said I was a good painter (much less a good artist), and I never said I knew how to paint well. I don't know how to handle the brushes, my brush strokes are unlovely and irregular, and we won't even speak of my colors and blending. My work is basic and juvenille. I don't pretend its anything but, and it really frustrates me to still be in a learner stage making poor, basic paintings like that, but I can't start out as a master.
I doubt I'll get too much better than I am now, but I have to override my perfectionist tendencies that demand I be a master painter, and remind myself that I'm just doing it for creative outlet. I'm only painting for emotional expression (although I guess its up to you to decipher what in the world kind of emotion I'm trying to convey...heh).
