One more pass-I keep telling myself-and this one will be done. I down my brushes and toss palettes, then spend the rest of the evening pacing in and out of the studio to pick holes in it, fighting the urge to paint over it, or at least crack the bastard over my knee.
Who was it said a painting is never finished, merely abandoned?
Its a kind of neurosis, I'd moot Van Gogh maddening except I'd be so lucky to be ailed by the kind of madness that has one knocking out five paintings before breakfast.
In a nightmarish purgatory somewhere, I work the same painting for a lifetime, the canvas caked ten foot thick with layers.
Quite aptly it'll be titled 'Misery acquaints man with strange bedfellows' when its done.
This particular bedfellow gives me no rest.
