Negativity

I entered a painting in an open hanging at my local museum. It was one of my favorite paintings I did last summer. To my eye, it was colorful, mysterious, rich, and evocative. Painting it made me feel like the power to my senses had been turned up. It felt germinal, like I could paint a hundred spin-offs from it. I didn't though. I started nursing school, and haven't picked up a brush since. Well that's not true. I tried to paint, and I did some oil pastels, but I couldn't develop any momentum working that infrequently.

In the intervening months, I thought about art, wished I could find the time to paint, and painted in my imagination. The longer I don't paint though, the more I lose my connection to my own creativity and feelings. Paint helps me be more me. When I don't paint, I lose my inner compass, and couldn't even tell you what I care about or what i don't. I start hating things like sex and food and living. In other words, I don't paint for the art. I paint to stay sane. Yes, I want to like what I paint, but I mostly don't...so that isn't why I do it.

But when I see my tiny, insignificant, pointless little waste of canvas and pigment on a museum wall surrounded by a dozen other future garage sale rejects...I really just want to burn it all. I feel terrible for burdening the world with more human crap.

At least this negative crap isn't taking up any physical space.