I am worn out. Deep in the bone tired of watching the walls in my space that are plain and clear of paintings. Just full of nails and tacks where paintings once hung or where they were supposed to hang. Downstairs I have a room with lots of arts supplies and canvases in various stages of undress. I must use those crates of paint before they harden up and die.
So for the next few canvases, it will be me and Van Gogh. Through his good times and bad times, his loves and his loss, through losing and regaining his mind, (only to lose it again) to the bitter end, he painted. I have been empathising with him this year, and recently began reading his letters on line. My pieces are based on the title and content of a few of his, using what I have around my house. I am also writing a diary of sorts with each painting I produce.
Hopefully my ending will not be as bitter as his was.