Interestingly enough, even though I recently made an idea list, today is filled with complete distraction as my brain wanders aimlessly in the studio. Occasionally, I stare at the blank canvas on the easel. What is it supposed to be?
Looking at the list doesn't help. At the very least, the hydrangea is planted in a spot where it can be seen from the kitchen and studio windows. That's good.
I go outside to look for pretty things to paint; flowers, leaves, tree branches....nothing seems acceptable. Hilary tells me not to cut the flowers on the hydrangea. "They're too pretty," she says. She's right, of course.
Back in the studio...for what? I squeeze small amounts from tubes of paint on the palette thinking that seeing the oils of various colors and hues will help inspire. Nothing.
I carelessly flip the pages of an art book on the life of Suzanne Valadon. She, like other artists, painted a lot of self portraits. Maybe it's time to work on a self portrait. In this lackluster mood, it would be a morose painting. Nobody wants to see that.
There are several paintings in a state that need tweeking...not today, though.
I read a book. I pray. I play a game of xmahjongg on the computer, and another, and another. I start dismantling the contents of my desk and make a mess to re-organize. Distracted by memories kept in my desk, I notice the house is quiet. I'm home alone, a perfect afternoon to paint, and yet, I do nothing. I think nothing. I create nothing.