The Act of Painting

Art proves to be a bitter-sweet endeavor.  Most of my best pieces originated somewhere between grief and a bottle of bourbon.  My experiences in the world of professional art were disillusioning, at best.  On a more fundamental level, I have certain insecurities and regrets which rein during that period between finishing a painting and moving beyond the act of creation.  I have often wished to burn my paintings.

An old painting is rewarding in that it captures a moment from my life.  After all, regardless of the artistic value contained, at some point in my life I felt something with enough force to devote some hours to capturing the moment in semi-permanent form.  I can look back at any given painting to recall tribulations and moods.  It is like a photo album of my emotional states – my journey.

On the other hand, attempting to place a painting in society is a grueling act of submission further marred by economic serfdom.  All things considered, I have come to equate the act of painting to the wholesale prostitution of my inner child.  I surrender to the act of creation with certainty that I must immediately subject myself to the tribulations of public scrutiny and extend my hand for donations.

Furthermore, each completed painting is a piece of my naked and dead soul on the concrete, staring at me with accusing fish eyes.  Each sits before me as an alien creation, a Frankenstein’s Monster, a freak of nature.  Each painting bears my shortcomings as a painter, my lack of broader perspective, and my naiveté regarding the socio-economic realities of the world.  Each emotion bared is one that shames me, and I am pinned naked against the wall for gawkers and armchair commentators to reject.  A painting is a great humiliation.

I haven’t painted seriously in many months.  This should be no surprise given my comments above.  But I find joy and liberation in the act of painting.  I desperately wish to divorce myself from the future and to paint in the present.  To this end, I have decided to burn the art dealers, literally.  I will burn the art critics.  I will burn the commentators.  I will burn the future owners.   I will burn the paintings.

Paint thinner is very flammable.  If needed, I will pervert my own mixture to make it more so.  I will thin my paints with a time bomb, and I will surrender each experience to eternity.  This solves my painter’s block.  I will be the flaming artist.

Now I don't hardly know her
But I think I could love her
Crimson and clover

Ah
Well if she come walkin' over
Now I been waitin' to show her
Crimson and clover
Over and over

Yeah
My mind's such a sweet thing
I wanna do everything
What a beautiful feeling
Crimson and clover
Over and over

Crimson and clover, over and over