Kev's recent pic on his blog of the darkening blue sky with the trailing lights reminded me of this series I took outside of Phoenix, now taped to a wall in my apartment.
The other's an oil painting I tried in Phoenix, on my balcony, when I learned drinking and oil painting don't mix, for several obvious reasons, but most notably . . .
Geoff, you called seconds after I knocked over (and shattered) a jar of kerosene full of diluted red oil paint. It was a drunken, messy moment that tooks days of elbow-grease to try to erase.
Not unlike certain conversations I've had in a similar state of mind.
When I moved out, somehow, I was charged two-hundred bucks for stuff I completely disagree with (e.g a $40 trash removal fee I attribute to a Starbucks cup I left on the kitchen counter). I wasn't, however, charged for the gigantic, crimson, crimescene-esque stain I tried so hard to scrub off the concrete floor.
The pic is part of the painting now hanging in the dining room. When I look at it, I miss seeing the saguaro towering everywhere, lined in the strip malls and scattered throughout the open desert spaces. At the same time, I'm relieved I skipped town before the 118 degrees set in.
I haven't oil-painted since.
Sticking to acrylic and painting sober.
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