Painting is a hybrid of the written word and body language. There is meaning in every mark, covering other marks that mean something too. Every dab, stroke, and cut makes a suggestion, and their delivery conveys mood and emotion. Colors owerwhelm as they crash into each other, each wave leaving a bit of itself on the other. And unlike other languages, you can take your statements back, making them unreadable by removing a bit here and there.
Bringing a true painting together is beautiful. It says something different every time you read it. It could be the same word that pops in your mind, but you'll notice a new mark and the way it was handled each time you look.
I've been able to use that language well only once. And it wasn't on the whole canvas. It was on my forehead. The painting was enough to mislead my professor into thinking that there was untapped talent. (I have a much better handle on the language of sculpture and prefer it because painting for me is like golf: one good shot in the entire outing is not good enough for me.)
So today I scanned my forehead for your amusement. Please don't shoot me down if I'm wrong about the language.
No comments:
Post a Comment