I notice the familiar, bitter, strong scent of turpentine as it once again surrounds me, in the emptiness of my attic. Soft beams of sunlight float through the open windows, and a warm fresh breeze sweeps through the maze, rustling papers as it winds about. From my view I can see the world outside and all its treasures, as clear as a glass of water, and yet I remain inside, and decide to render my own worlds full of passion and endless scenes. This is my hide out.
Unordered piles of old paper, torn but still worthy textures, tubes of paint from which oils leak not at the lid but the worn out crack at the sealed end, to which I now wonder how its existence came about, all messily camouflage the once polished surface of a wooden table. Among these are jars of murky and unchanged water, in which neglected reminents of pigment have sunk to the bottom and settled, creating a dusty cloud if ever disturbed. There are fragments of colour and curls of fragile, thin wood scattered over the floor from discarded piles of pencil sharpenings.
But within all of this beautiful catastrophe, I am now faced with a blank canvas, just the regular size. The brushes I hold in my hands, thin, thick, hog hair, sable hair, round, or flat, all wait patiently to create the next piece of pure expression taking the form of continuous brushstrokes. However this artwork as all the previous and all those to come, will routinely be appreciated by everyone except for me; for artists always see their faults, existent or not.
