There is a certain inalienable fear when I pick up brush to paint. Will it be good enough, ostracized, reveal too much of my inner sanctum. It's like beginning to write a book without a clear ending. Unknowing if the final product will match the dream.
In a way, painting, creating is like looking at a dirty canvas and slowly, with rag of vicious turpentine, delicately wiping away the grime to reveal the picture underneath that has always been there, in my dreams, in my head.
As I stare at blank canvas, naked wood, within my mind I am "told" what colors and designs to employ next. It's a process of trusting...myself and the creation....it's risky, scary...it's show who I am.
The naked artist
Just lots of unique perspectives come to mind, brush in hand and moving with an inner pulse
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