Last Friday, I submitted an art proposal, and even though it's not conclusive whether (or not) I've gotten the job, the project is so exciting (to me) that I've started working on it anyway. Part of the project includes scoping out locations in Houston where I ride my bike to use as inspiration for artwork. And even though I've ridden the ole cruiser past one particular location, in the interest of time yesterday, I drove the suburban there for an informal traffic study, and to take some reference photos. Traffic in the area is robust, full of large service vehicles. A polite bystander, named Louis, who was sitting in an area I had previously thought might make a good vantage point for painting, offered the suggestion that on Sundays, the traffic is almost non-existent. It would be nice to not die from being hit by a truck while painting on the side of the road. I thanked him for the tip.
Louis and I also discussed the book he was reading whereupon he said he would leave the book for me there when he had finished reading it if I wanted to read it next. Is that common street etiquette? Do I bring a book for him, too, and leave it on that street corner in Houston, with his name on it?
After leaving the conversation with Louis, I drove toward home really excited to start work in the studio, and silently congratulated myself for good time management. Approximately two miles from home, the suburban stuttered, sputtered, and let out a deep sigh before passing out. It was out of gas. All that brilliant time management was for naught. (Ha!) After walking home, glad to be wearing comfortable shoes (Chuck Taylor Converse All Star Low Tops Slip-Ons,) I tried to work in the studio but the inspirational momentum was gone.
So, it ended up being one of those days where I paint, wipe it off, paint again, wipe it off again, and then clean my brushes in stoic frustration, if that makes sense. Even though I have nothing to show yesterday's efforts, perhaps it's better to work and see no visible results than not work at all.