I still don’t have a finished painting that is good enough to put on a postcard.
I need to finish the larger canvases.
The few that seem close to being “done” seem equally deserving of being set into a roaring fire.
I need boldness, big brushes and brash strokes.
What I have is timidity, the tiny brush and the endless noodling.
Psychological paralysis and incessant worry.
If something doesn’t change soon, I don’t know what will happen with my May show.
If I set tiny paintings ten feet apart and say, “I meant to do that,” do you think anyone will believe me?
This image from a disintegrating 1951 psychology text ambushed me while I was scrounging for collage material.
The before and after pics wouldn’t seem out of place in some ancient ad for a beauty treatment.
I dreamt about this possibly long-dead woman last night and think I may need to paint something about her to exorcise her.
I know lobotomies aren’t performed anymore, but it does make me think that with the plethora of antidepressants being prescribed to the worried well, something basic hasn’t really changed here.
Is being anxious and self-conscious really so bad? It’s a basic part of who I’ve always been. And what’s so great about serenity?
From the text: “Without seriously reducing intelligence, as measured by standard tests, the operation usually leaves a person less anxious, less self-conscious and more serene.”