March finds me still in thrall with the wild god.
Hiron's poem nudges and prods, demands and whispers, pushes and dares. Let the wild god not find us, dear reader, wondering how we got so old and where our passion went. Instead, let us listen to the foxes and otters and snakes and live on the edge of our eyeballs whenever we can. And so, in witnessing what is emerging in the paint while the wild god prods, I both exult and weep at once.
About the art: beginning with an inspiration image provided by the A.I. bot, who seems to very much like ballet (oh yes, even monsters, villains, goats, rabbits and demons might be wearing tutus when you ask the bot for things), I set out to create a deeply colored piece with an air of thoughtful wistfulness and contemplation. Beginning with a light sketch in color pencil, laying down thin washes of oil paint with rubber wedge, brush and paper towel. Allowing the paint to do things on its own, resisting the urge to perfect, overly clarify or define. This one is on Arches oil paper, which remains my new favorite.