I put my loaded brush to the canvas and hear that familiar sound. Like a scratching with motion and vigor although it looks smooth to the eye. No image yet but just a background, catching the tone of my mood. And I remember. Art is my lover. She keeps me balanced. She keeps me sane. She is always waiting in the wing. And I keep abandoning her because the life of an artist is too unstable. Right now what I remember is how the purchase of my paintings took me to Paris, Brussels, Ghent, Amsterdam, London, Edenborough, Venice all the way to Rome. It paid for my stay in Copenhagen. When I moved to Squamish, I paid for a chunk of my rent through the landlord having the option to borrow my art for his property showings.
I thought I was one of the chosen few who got to fall in love with art and have it support me financially forever. I thought that people would always want to buy my paintings, because they always did. They sold from everywhere with no effort of my own. When they don't fly out like hotcakes, I turn to other things and get unhappy. And when I get back to it, I feel so fulfilled! Everything I need is right here and it truly does feel like a lover, a cosmic dance, I am the galaxy creating new life, fully content. And I know that when the painting is done and the process is over, I will want it to leave me to find a home, to go to where it will be loved so I can start another and stay in my bliss. And thus, my failing is not in the struggle with the result of the painting but in the attachment to the result of whether it is on my walls or on yours because you love it and made it yours. This is conditional love and I strive to do it irregardless because my soul asks for it. Ok, back to the canvas, she calls . . . .
