Mom mailed me a red climbing rose for Valentine's day about 20 years ago. I planted it, and then after a few years it died under my draconian care. The rootstock under the graft took hold and it's actually a much better metaphor for Mom in its scrappier form. I've ever since remembered her with immediacy during the long months of their zaftig bloom.
Rose colors on the palette. I'm using acrylics because I'm getting ready for a show at Naked City Brewing in Seattle in September. Oils don't dry that fast, unless I invest in a medium that hastens drying, which isn't going to happen.
I have heard of artists who arrange their paints exactly so they always know, when the brush darts in that direction, they're going to get that specific color. Me, I am not interested in exact color. I want the colors to slap you around, and after that, whatever works. I squeeze stuff out on the palette and think, "hey! I could use that! ... I think. Let's see. ... Yeah, I can!" Back before we got a big enough bank of solar panels on our house, I used a studio light that was about half a watt, and I'd be painting away, and then in the morning light could see that what I had thought was green was purple, and the blue was red. It was usually just fine.
I have heard of artists who arrange their paints exactly so they always know, when the brush darts in that direction, they're going to get that specific color. Me, I am not interested in exact color. I want the colors to slap you around, and after that, whatever works. I squeeze stuff out on the palette and think, "hey! I could use that! ... I think. Let's see. ... Yeah, I can!" Back before we got a big enough bank of solar panels on our house, I used a studio light that was about half a watt, and I'd be painting away, and then in the morning light could see that what I had thought was green was purple, and the blue was red. It was usually just fine.
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