feh. &c.

[catsidhe]

Woof.

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Abbi was very proud of herself yesterday when she went off to childcare. She was wearing a skirt and proudly proclaimed "I look like a princess!"

It is said that every father likes the idea of his daughter being a princess. Not least, however, because of what this implies of his status.

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I think I know what was the straw that drew the Dog onto me: Rolf Harris' Celebrity Portraits last night. It's wonderful to watch, but when I do, all I can think about, in between bouts of crippling envy as to the artists' skill, is that I used to draw. I used to paint. I haven't picked up a pencil in anger in over a decade, and when I try now, I am so disgusted with my attempts that I have to give up. And as for painting, I would love to paint. I just have to set up an easel and canvas. I just have to get an easel and canvas I just have to find a place to set up an easel and canvas i just have to find the time to work on an easel and canvas ijusthavetohave the skillto dosomethingworthwhile withaneasel andcanvasijusthavetohavetohaveto...

Ah fuckit.

I can't read Charles de Lint's Memories and Dreams either, for the same reason. It is full, from beginning to end, of descriptions of the joy of painting, of the way you can lose yourself in creation, and surround yourself with the results, and thus pass some of that joy on to others. I once had a taste of that. Ok, so I wasn't Leonardo, but I could dream. And now I fear that I will never feel that joy again.¹

And on my friends list are so many brilliant writers. At least one for whom writing is his profession, and tooticky who has won her way into a writing workshop. (That is, won as the prize for effort, rather than through dumb luck.) And me? I can whinge. I have written the occasional decent diatribe. But I just can't put the pieces together to write a story, whether short or long. I spend far too much time at the level of words and sentences to be able to stand back and look at plot or character. I don't even know where to begin.

And even if I did know, I don't have the time to practice. My time is chopped into little pieces, whatever the day, or time of day, or place. And flow is as important to art as it is to coding. You need that time to get the work into your head, and get your head around it before you can start to meaningfully add to what's there, and once you're in that flow then time ceases to have meaning. Flow is a precious state

... three hours later ...

You see, that's exactly what I'm talking about.

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Right now I just want to hide under my desk and cry. Literally.

I used up today's quota of 'happyface' earlier this morning, and now I can't even bring myself to fake being cheerful.

I hate that dog.

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[1] Of course, at the moment I find it hard to feel any joy whatsoever, but you get the idea.

Comments

Re: On Flow

[usuakari.livejournal.com]

I knew there was a reason I married you... even if I'm not completely sure I actually agree with your position (which just makes it more interesting, in the end). :)

Catsidhe, one thing that does spring to mind is that (like many of us) you're probably over-thinking the issue. "Try? There is no try." Just go and paint or draw something, and then go and paint or draw something else. Worry about the results later. Maybe miniatures would be a good start, as I seem to remember that you're pretty good at them.

And as your Mum pointed out, the calligraphy ad illumination surely count.