So, I did as planned (not as common as you’d think), and created a much larger version of a small painting. The original was 60 x 50 cm, the larger version is 120 x 100 cm; literally the largest canvas I can get up the stairs into my studio.
I feel I have achieved what I set out to do. It’s not exactly the same as the original, I haven’t just made a scaled up copy. I am happy with it.
Now I am working on another scaled up painting, but this time I have allowed colour to take a more central role.
It is not going as smoothly. Perhaps foolishly, I am trying to translate a square painting onto a rectangular canvas. As a result, I am having to make changes to the composition. It is becoming a very different painting to the original. I think I’m ok with that. Will update when it’s finished.
When I have reached the end of my energy and focus, and I cannot paint anymore, I feel a deep emptiness. I have to wait patiently until I am replenished. In that space where I cannot work, I am grieving. I have been ejected from the place I need to be. I am without purpose. Knowing that I will paint again soon gives me no comfort. It takes enormous willpower not to turn to alcohol to fill this void. I understand how easy it is for an artist to become a drinker (the last thing I need is to be a slave to drink as well as painting). When the grief is too much, I will just continue painting anyway, push myself even further. I cannot bear to stop.
For me, painting is a compulsion. No, it is not relaxing, or therapeutic. It takes stamina to paint. Even so, it brings great joy. For every high, however, there is a low. To stop, would be to have no reason to live. Without it, I am lost.