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Sitting on the lid

July 17, 2018

The hardest part of creating a painting is that moment I am in front of a blank canvas, trying to break through the barrier of simply beginning.

“Just get something on it, I urge myself, “just make a start.”

But there’s something paralyzing about that blank canvas.

Most of the time that paralysis is a lump of wordless emotion, trying to pull itself off as indifference or a lack of inspiration. I wonder if that’s ever actually been true, though. The more time I spend in this earth suit on this whirling ball of dirt, the more I doubt it.

Write.

I can’t.

Write.

I don’t have anything to say.

That’s not true.

But it feels true. Why does it feel so true? Why do I feel so stuck, so paralyzed, by the blank page?

Maybe because I feel the pull of things I can’t explain…and can’t defend. Maybe because I know there is a whirlwind of words, pictures, and ideas that many find frightening and disturbing because they don’t understand them. And I’m acutely aware that I live in a world that is quick to judge what it doesn’t understand.

Maybe…maybe I just have an honesty problem, and I’ve been able to dance around that because I haven’t told lies, so therefore, I’ve been honest, right?

That’s been my story up until now, and I’ve stuck to it.

But it seems that approach is a sure way to get marooned with a blank white canvas and dried up paint.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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