Sliding brushes heavy with oil.
Dripping with translucent turpenoid.
Would you like to see?
This painting, which I've been calling "The Things We Shed," has been waiting for the last six months. I stretched the canvas over barren bars and laid down the initial ground layer of color right before I began chemotherapy last Summer. I thought I knew what she would look like then, I thought I knew what "shedding" was about. But then the toxins hit my system and the faintest whiff of paint sent me spiraling into severe nausea. I tried to work, believe me, but with zero success or tolerance. So the oils were packed away, out of the studio, and she sat quietly on the easel. Waiting. Developing into pages and pages of writings. Into twenty different sketches, none of which was quite right. But the whole time she was about shedding. And she was patient.
Then last week, driving down the road with the most mundane of errands to do, I saw her. In a flash of inspiration that could only be attributed to the divine, I knew what she needed, what imagery must be laid down. What life, what death, what regeneration, what decay needed to be born. I quite literally dived off the side of the road and marched into the closest cafe. I ordered a tea latté and drew.
And drew some more.
I've a long way to go on this piece, but that flame in my chest is burning bright, illuminating the path.