“You’re an artist? Wow, that must be so much fun!”

I get up at around 5:45. I make myself a cup of coffee and I write three pages by hand, about whatever comes to mind. When writing I try to steer my thoughts on to what’s important that I achieve during the day; what’s important that I do, and how I need to go about doing it. The idea is that writing will inspire me and help me concentrate, making my efforts more effective. The writing routine is by advice from my therapist. It’s part of my current struggle to get to know the person that is I and to understand why I act the way I do. At 32 I figure it’s about time.
 
The act of painting is chaotic to me; at times harmonious, at other times emotional. I go from enthusiasm to extreme boredom, and back again. Knowledge gained throughout the years is always in conflict with my eagerness to experiment and to just fuck things up. The very first ambition and idea of what the finished piece will look like is repeatedly attacked by my falling in love with it during different stages along the way.
I think I may be too restless to paint.

In a perfect world I work from 9:00 to 4:00, but I have still to succeed at that. Coffee needs to be made, nose needs picking, groceries must be shopped… Again and again I’m interrupted by either important and / or urgent stuff, real or imagined.

If I’m to describe the level of enthusiasm with which I wield the brush I’d say I start off on a low. By the time I actually put the first paint on the canvas I have exhausted all excuses NOT to paint. I’ve had breakfast, and maybe a second cup of coffee. Frozen salmon is out on the table to thaw till lunch time. I’ve checked my mail, made a stupid remark on facebook and brushed my teeth.
It’s now 10:30, I take a deep breath, start mixing ultramarine blue with iron oxide red and it’s such a fucking chore. Whore!
Soon though I’m in there. The level of enthusiasm is higher. KRS-One is blasting, my foot is tapping, and there are by now a few blobs of paint neatly mixed on the palette. Things start happening. I’m painting on something other from what I first intended, but I’m working and that’s all that counts.
Tragically I tend to quickly use even the slightest effort made as a means to feel good about myself – ah, well done, Val! …woops, 11:20!, might as well start making lunch!

I have lunch, and by the time I’m done and my thoughts and attention have wandered I have to overcome myself in order to get back to work – a procedure similar to the one I did in the morning. I do the dishes. I ask myself, yes I really ask myself if I should maybe probably use the bathroom. Cup of coffee? No, I need to wait for 30 minutes after I’ve eaten. 30 minutes… kinda dumb to start painting if I’m making coffee in half an hour. [bli-BLUP] Mail! *reading* Hahaha… that’s funny! I should answer! But what to write? …what’s that word? I look it up in the dictionary, and_time_does_fly…

I could be done with lunch in 45 minutes, but it rarely takes me less than two hours.

 
I fear painting. I know both the feeling of success, and the feeling of failure; orgasmic spiritual timeless oneness on one side, and disgusting suicidal impotent confusion on the other, both equally dangerous. I’m sure the problem of starting lies here. …Or, no, that’s bullshit. Sounds pretty cool though.

Loneliness gets to me sometimes. There are days when I don’t talk to anyone other than myself. I miss having colleagues around. Although I have worked in environments full of people, and I haven’t been very comfortable with that either.
Twitter has helped. I tweet throughout any day, seeking response or interaction of some sort.

At 5 in the afternoon I’m peaking. There’s no fear. I know what I’m doing and what I’m doing matters. One could aptly say “I am rocking it”. Notice how this is an hour later than when I was supposed to stop for the day. At this time I should be done cleaning brushes, palette, and putting excess paint in the freezer, all of which takes me about an hour. This is when I should be working out, giving full expression to my muscle dysmorphia, bringing sexy bakk.
But I’m painting and I’m at my best, fully conscious of the fact that had I started earlier, and had I not wasted my time during lunch break, I’d have a nice relaxing evening in front of me, and this is all adding to my frustration. By now the music is unnecessarily loud, I have a slight headache, I’m hungry, and my eyes are tired, but the color mixtures are correct and I’m doing exactly what I need to be doing.
6 o’clock, ok, awesome, I just need to finish this one area in the upper right corner of the painting, and I need to make it look GOOD (read -“interesting”), and I’ll be done…
At 6:30 I still don’t really think I’m done, but I give up. I find ways to convince myself that this is a good state in which to leave this piece of shit painting for the day.
There is solace in knowing that an oil painting can always be made better, given more time.

You think life as an artist must be “so much fun!”?
“so much fun!” doesn’t even come close to accurately describing my life. My life is fucking awesome amounts of awesome beyond AWESOME.