I had forgotten how to do this. How to set the paint brush free and let it fly on its own. It gives me such joy to see it soar with such abandon wave after wave, stroke after stroke.
It’s as if the paint brush knows the comfort of a sitting pose, the ease of being in your own space and embrace. It caresses the embrace of the arms, the hill of the raised leg as if all the enjoyment of just being there in that space are held in those brush strokes.
There was something about the marks made with Ultramarine and a bit of Payne’s grey and a dry brush. Something about an unfinished painting. Something that spoke about bareness and spaces left white.
