Triumph of the Weaker Sibling

Well, I got into my studio for the first time in a long time last night. I guess I never realized how much I had put off finishing my second painting in a series for my dad until I saw its preliminary state again, the portions of gesso mocking me in some corners. I stared at what was completed of it, already regretting the tones of the under-painting, searching the composition in an attempt to figure out how I would proceed next.

This, is clearly my downfall.

When I begin a painting the anticipation is overwhelming. My mind is brimming with ideas, methods of execution. Many times before I even draw up a sketch I am already coming up with details, little subtleties to work in. I become clumsy with joy, usually stubbing my toe on something heavy and metal-like, or spilling some sort of stainable substance on my favorite shirt. “Eh, I never liked this shirt,” I tell myself. Funny what fervor can do to a girl.

As the painting progresses my excitement wanes. I get the canvas ready, sketch out the boundaries, work up an under-painting. By this point something has usually gone wrong. “Gone wrong” is a term I loosely use to describe when a painting does not conform exactly to the vision in my head (any artist will tell you what a futile and pointless way to work this is). Usually this means a color is not how I had imagined, face a tad too oblong. Perhaps I am stuck in some technical aspect.

This is the most volatile point in the painting’s existence. It is at this point that I may throw up my hands, glare at its profile, smugly propped on the easel, mocking me. I tell myself I need a day away from it, that I need to look at it with fresh eyes, a new outlook. In reality I know it will sit on the easel until I feel comfortable enough to move it to a shelf to gather dust. They never ripen with age.

But yesterday something changed. I looked at the painting for my dad with that familiar helplessness, that familiar disappointed gaze. But out of nowhere a sudden brick of perseverance hit me. I thought about the first painting in this series. Like a stronger sibling achieving higher-goals, the painting was already gone, proudly being framed. There it would be displayed on my father’s office wall, casting shadows on forgotten business cards, light gleaming off of it like a shiny tooth. What chance had this second painting had to prove its worth? Succeed in life? Who had taken a chance on this one?

As the regret welled up inside me, excitement came flooding back, pouring over me and soaking through my clothes. After a moment of clarity I looked down and realized what was soaking through my clothes was in fact Turpentine: a clear sign I was infatuated again.

“Your gonna make it, little buddy,” I soothed the painting.

“Your day is coming too!”

[callie].