The maddening quiet before battle, toeing the edge of a cold pool, the first plodding steps of a 5 mile run, the first 100 miles of a 10 hour drive, the first few inches up a tall mountain…All unpleasant reluctant times where someone might hesitate and try to avoid the toil and trouble, to willingly give up the rewards of a struggle so they may bypass any unpleasantness or discomfort.
I feel these feelings and urge these urges – wanting to stay on the couch and avoid the untold amounts of work and concentration, fighting doubt and the fear of failure – when I sit down to paint. I often begin knowing what I need to paint and have a good idea of how I want to pull it off, but as I begin, the emptiness of the space I am to fill is like a mountain of coal and the paint brush a tiny shovel.
I know all about just putting one foot in front of the other and so I am able to force myself to plunge into the icy waters of artistic expression. Once I’m in, I’m in. I won’t get out, I won’t give up. It is as hard to quit, harder even, than it was to begin. And when I’m finished, too exhausted to continue making positive decisions about a piece, and before I can allow myself to depart and hit the bed, I sit back and enjoy any successes and start to plan for my next struggle against the forces of chaos, trying to coral the cat-like elements of two dimensional form as they dart and run in every direction.
In other words, art is a bitch. I real pain in the ass. I’m so glad I have the reward of a finished piece and any praise and money that it may bring because the act itself is not unlike marching hip deep in shit.
Keep digging, WOODCOCK
