The first lines of my canvas look somewhat like these dream scattered lines of my notebook. In the morning over tea I drew my still life from memory. Now at the end of the first day, I realize that the first lines I drew with paint were rather like these precursors.
First lines are the gathered essential thoughts, the first impressions, the longed for idea bundled up like flowers. In their still vague dress of make-believe they merely point towards hopes and longing. I will love this painting once it’s underway. I am already enjoying work. Looking into the depths among my objects I find the hints of so many possibilities. One small corner of a room can contain radical amounts of color and tone, shape and meandering line, hidden questions and enigmas to satisfy the needs of a hundred painted pictures. Yet soon after I had finished assembling my still life I found that one core set of forms had drawn my heart into this idea, so I’m inching along, laying down lines, trying to gain enough ground to see the first reward.
Perhaps hiking a mountain is like this? There’s a lot of work with your head down before you get to enjoy the view.
My first fumbling sketches are a crude map toward my destination.