ONE sitting down to paint should have an idea of what he is going to do, but only a vague idea.
By a Bay Now Called “Biscayne” ___P. Crockett
IT feels like I do some of my paintings, as one might normally expect. You know: conceive an idea, somehow get there (the path, winding or direct, being the heart of the reason for the experience, in the first place), and be done with it. And on to the next.
Certain others, however, would seem to mock any such proprietary notions of artistic creativity, choosing instead to suddenly drag me along upon on a journey hell-bent for I know not where. It can be quite frustrating, as the experience tends to cause no small discomfort to my inner “control queen.” (I can just hear Alan’s saying, “What do you mean, inner?!” As in “you got one inside, also?”) Yep. It can be a jungle around here!
This canvas is one of those wild, those untamed ones. At the moment I’m down one aboriginal Tequesta hunter, who might have been thirsty and heading for the cool sweet water of the “punch bowl” spring. In all fairness, though, he might have simply snuck out of the painting, or deeper into the bush, with the same primal stealth with which he entered in the first place.
Whatever the case, I’ve good reason to expect his imminent re-appearance, possibly captured in a moment of ancient natural drama. But then again, what in the Hell do I know? I’m only the artist, here.
Paintings are rarely linear in either conception or execution. This one is taking the cake!
I’ll keep you posted.