When bad painting are so good!

I'm slow.

And I'm ok with that.

Don't misunderstand.  I'm not dull or shallow. I'm just slow. Im not interested in the shortest route from A to B. Nor am I interested  in cramming as much as I can into a very small space. Not that I don't appreciate those who are and do so brilliantly. In fact, I rather admire those with different skills sets and interests than my own.  But in trying to emulate them, I lose interest quickly, lose focus, lose my way. Going too fast makes me dizzy, just like going too slow makes others bored and restless.

I love water. As a child, I did a lot of swimming. But while some of my peers enjoyed having races, I enjoyed a different sort of challenge. I would  try to see how deep I could  swim underwater. How deep could I go before the water pressure and need for air would catapult me back to the surface. I also enjoyed seeing how long I could float, how still I could be on the surface of the water. Or how far I could swim at my slow methodical pace.

These childhood games are indicative of my painting style, indeed, of who I am when the pressures of survival aren't assaulting me. Longevity, depth, and simplicity have particular value for me. 

Plein air painting (painting in open air, or on sight), goes against every one of my instincts, body, mind and soul. And my pathetic attempts make that fairly clear. On the field there is no time to think. It's an race against the elements. Pure instinct and skill. You have to be decisive and confident, know exactly what you want to capture, and do it fast.

In the studio, I often name my paintings before my brush ever touches linen. But on the field, my surroundings dictate. There is little time to contemplate the symbols and voices of the elements and subjects. And no time to get distracted. Yes, those very distractions that keep me from being a successful plein air painter, enable me to be a passionate studio painter. In the studio, I will give voice to all those nagging distractions, the little sparkles of light that we're far too fleeting for my contemplative nature to capture. But those ideas would not have come to mind, if I hadn't been on that field, on that day, in the blinding light, or freezing rain, hacking away at my canvas board close to tears from discomfort and frustration. 

So I continue to paint en plein air. Not because I'm great at it, though I have had some successes. Not because I love it, though I sometimes do. Not because I long to see new places, though I often find them interesting. I continue to paint en plein air because I see strength and passion emerging from my struggle. Because insight eventually emerges from my blindness.

Besides, it's just so artsy!