More often than not it is during the process of drawing that the meaning of a picture becomes clear to me. As hard as it is to explain, but the moment a picture forms in my head is usually not the moment I understand why I have to bring it on canvas. Painting is like a discovery mission. Every line a thought. Every picture a million movements of the brush.
Mostly, I daydream about the creation of the one, the perfect picture that will change my life. I know it is the same way while writing, though it is kind of hard to concentrate on your storyline while you’re imaging something completely different. And I guess it is similar for singers or designers or anyone creating in the lonesome dark while hoping for the light to shine on him.
There is fear too. A plain white canvas is a scary thing. But even scarier is a canvas halfway turned into a new creation after hours and hours of work. You reach a point there you know that you could screw it up easily if just some lines don’t curve in the right angle or some mix of hues doesn’t work out. The further you’re into a painting, the harder corrections become. Yet, here you are striving for perfection.
In between fear and daydreams, mixing and repeated, almost meditative filling of shapes ideas pop up. You chase them. You try to get them and mull them over, until you know why the sun is rising over Tel Jerusalem’s DNA when you want to talk Identity or why ash spreads out on paper and music when you think tremendously good looking men and Spike.
Try to catch them – tomorrow, today, when I will create again: the one, the perfect picture.