I start a new painting. Or when I THINK about starting a new painting.
Sometimes, I overthink the process and then I begin to get a little scared. The bad Penny angel on one shoulder begins to argue with the good Penny angel on the other side. It goes something like this:
Bad: "You know you're no good. No one will want to look at your stuff, much less want to buy it."
Good: "Crawl back under your rock."
Bad: "You know you really struggled with that last painting. Why will it be any different this time?"
Good: "Each day is a new beginning. Each painting is a new beginning. Besides, I really like painting. I feel truly like myself when I'm painting."
Bad: "So who are you the rest of the time? Princess Diana?"
Good (or not so good Penny): "Shut up! Vaporize! Leave me alone..."
Good Penny simply picks up a paint brush, a tube of paint and begins. Our heroine has learned that the best way to quiet the demons is to work. Begin. Stop. Begin again.
I did start a new, rather large painting last night. I'd planned the composition and the colors ahead of time and I was ready to get started. I did a sketch. I sqirted copious amounts of paint onto the palette. I picked up the biggest brushes in my collection.
I began to paint. Fast. Big. Loose. I moved all over that huge piece of canvas. It rocked on the easel as I attacked with a brush. I had to steady it with my other, non-brush holding hand. I stepped back; I moved in. Back and forth. In and out. Voices of Todd Lowery and other painting instructors bubbled up in my brain. They were the good angels in this scenario. They said things like: "Get in; get out." "What's the way in? What's the way out?" "What's the way round?"
I paused at 8:15pm. Happy. Pleased. I had Beloved Husband take a look. He said "What engendered such a huge change in your approach?" (You've got to love a man with a good vocabulary).
The honest truth? It was about time. I was beginning to bore myself.