There are times when a sense of impending doom settles over me. It just seems like everything is about to come to a grinding halt, and what am I doing with my time? Most likely sitting on my ass and watching some insipid television programming. Or something equally useless. When this fatalism gets really bad, the one recourse that I have found to provide the best illusion of spending my time in a worthwhile manner, one which I wouldn't be ashamed or disappointed with if it were terminally interrupted is the painting and drawing.
So, when the existentialism builds up to almost panic attack inducing levels, I usually grab a pencil and scribble away till it goes away. Usually nothing particularly interesting results, the sketch is left forgotten in some corner of some sketchbook somewhere. But, this time, I happened to engage in this frenzied sketching on a canvas. Perhaps because of this, I felt it necessary to include somewhat concrete forms and even perhaps some meaning or purpose or thematic content even seeped in (completely on accident of course). For some reason, starting a painting this way makes it feel like its a mistake. Maybe just because it is a break from my habitual process, or because it echoes a more personal and emotional approach to painting I silently wish I could embrace. Anyway, I sketched and felt better and then the pencil scribbled canvas sat there.
And sat there. And sat there.
Till another of these episodes came along. All alone, nothing to do, so I started smearing the canvas with paint. Again, it made me feel better, and continued to do so for the several days it took to complete it.