Penguin Diver 5 and Irresolution

Well, I think this is about it. For a day or two more I will keep looking at the painting from different angles, and changing small things here and there before I don't dare touch it anymore. I've added another fish, fingers of her right hand under the penguin, and made many small adjustments.



I don't know why I feel so restless about my artwork lately.
Perhaps because I have restrictions on space, and fret about the access my small daughter has to materials. Although I try to keep them out of reach, it seems at least once a week I am cleaning colors off her fingers or footsoles where they don't belong.

I wonder if I will every settle down and be faithful to one medium. My favorites are these pastels and oil paint, but I feel I haven't really begun to master either one. For a while I will be happy working in one or the other, and then the inconveniences begin to slowly irritate me. Right now I am getting tired of the dust from the pastels drying my skin, and shedding all over the floor. My husband can't stand the noise of a pastel stick being dragged over rough paper, he cringes and jumps away if I make a stroke while he's examining the painting. It sounds like fingernails on a blackboard to him! And my child can't resist the temptation to run over the old sheet that protects the floor and make colored footprints across the carpet! I try to clean it up and dread the possibility of my landlord seeing the faintly colored splotches of blue and grey and green. He is so particular about the carpets he goes purple in the face and sputters rage at seeing a visitor fail to remove their shoes before entering the house. I can't imagine his reaction at knowing that I paint in the living room.

And so I am considering picking up oils again. I have been mulling over this idea for several weeks now, but my husband keeps deterring me. I don't know if it is because he fears I will spend more money on new supplies, or because the last oil painting he saw me attempt never got finished, and remains fixed in his head in a dreadful state (with all the underpainting colors glaring their discord). He reminds me that I'm just beginning to be proficient and confident with this medium and should remain constant with it for a while yet. I mutter at the dust on my hands and dream of brushes and the scent of paint.

Of course, once I've been painting with oils for a while I will begin to tire of waiting for things to dry, or having to clean my brushes every night, or something else. Maybe having a real studio space someday will stem this wavering. How nice to be able to leave things where they are when I abandon a painting for a day instead of always having to squirrel them out of reach, I think. Even if it were just a spare bedroom in the house, I could cover the whole floor with plastic or dropcloths and forget about wiping my feet or wielding my brush carefully, but work with abandon!

painting is SOLD