My M.O.
It's white, of varying sizes.
Some are intimidated by it, some not.
It's blank at the beginning.
A textured surface.
Waiting to be covered with paint.
Waiting for the expression to begin.
And so it does.
First the outline of some shapes.
Then filling them in.
Watching the colors spread their wings and soar across the surface.
It is a balancing act between being in control and out of control.
It is a dance of feeling and emotions and memories that are captured in the shapes.
The shapes on the canvas.
I only go so far the first time, then stop.
I need to look at it.
From different angles.
I need time to study what has happened.
What is there and what isn't.
To get acquainted.
When I begin again, in a day or two,
I will look for the mistakes,
the things I don't feel are right.
As I try to correct them I am drawn back into the world of painting.
Half concentration and half day dream.
A world that's private in creation and public in display.
A world that speaks a language that not all can understand.
Those that do, know what I mean.
They feel it.
I used brushes with my oils at first, but not anymore—strictly palette knives now.
I like it thick and full.
The luster, the ooze of life, organic, breathing, living.
Emotion on canvas, alive and vital.
Each painting a living being of its own.
Feel the expression, feel the color, feel your feelings as only you can.
And if that is so, then I have succeeded.
That is my method of operation.
Simple, direct, and if you don't feel it.
Then it's not for you.
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