And one doesn’t always imitate. One gets tired, and it is rather fiddly. What about one’s own inner vision?
It hasn’t happened to me for years, but when I was a kid I used to have these dreams or nightmares of disproportion. In my own private language I called them Stompera, a sort of nightmare of disproportion involving an English noun with a Spanish ending otherwise known as Spanglish. I would dream of heavy leaden flowers on slender stalks, that sort of thing. I would wake up and it would be with me still, and at one point I thought it was because I would fall asleep with my arms under my pillow and cut off my circulation. I quit sleeping that way and have ever since been cautious. Anyway, this first one, with the light troubling that grey sky reminds me of that: not the flower/windmills or whatever they are.
Next, the city sort of crouching near a body of water, with some kind of subliminal, gigantic eagle to the right of it and a view that goes beyond the atmosphere above, caused by sprinkling salt on a still wet coat of prussian blue.
Is it a mad moon or is it the sun? What with the stars (removing the wet paint with a dry brush does that) one thinks of a moon. It also helps that the hut seems slightly (or not so slightly) misaligned, and that shadow is decidedly off. Weirdly, it all comes together–at least to me it does.
This next was such a fluke, and yet it is one of the paintings I’m most proud of–you may have seen it before. The face was an accident, the blots of burnt sienna that invade the prussian blue dabblings, the anemone or whatever it is at the bottom the idle fiddling with a puddle. Then I saw it and boldly added the fish. The white was added to the wet blue and . . . behaved marvelously.
The psychotic Christmas tree. I have turned my attention now to providing seasonal interior decoration.