You feel the paint on the pads of your fingers, and you rub it into your palms, wet like arterial blood, soaking you, staining you, dripping onto the hairs of your arms. It doesn’t matter what colors you choose; I prefer the darker tones, the burgundies and browns, sable and Douro red. Blending, always blending, finding the right thickness, that leaden hue, that earthen richness. And then you attack the canvas. A cruel exorcism of desire and pain, an eruption of dimension and form. You release the shapes: a building, a field, the curves of a woman in the moonlight. But you’ve already seen those things in your mind; this is a convergence of thought and fecundity.
They don’t teach you that in art school, do they, boy? They can teach you technique and color, medium and preparation, but they can’t teach you what you need to know about the seminal release of creativity. They can teach boys how to fuck, but they can’t teach them the urgency, the hunger of the soul to be released. There is painting, and there is art. Know the difference, boy. Sometimes you need to have your heart buried in a hobo’s grave before you can understand.