And this is my parents' basement. That's a crock pot.
I bring up this story for two reasons:
1) It took me until forced to realize how obligated I had come to feel towards The Vision; how detached I had become from the actual physical work of painting, how unsatisfied I actually felt with the day-to-day of it and;
2) I then had to face this and come to the realization that, whatever we did the day before does nothing but bring us to today. To hold onto it is pointless. To grow from it is the objective.
But of course, at the time I didn't want to admit either of these facts. Only when Buddy Holly (that is my manfriend's name, and the moniker under which he will henceforth be referred) reminded me that I was behaving in a completely contradictory manor to my belief system did I stop whining and pay attention. It went like this:
ME: "Yeah, well, they're sitting in my parents' basement now so what good are they going to do?"
BH: "Why are you saying that? Why are they so important to you now, that they're done? Isn't the point to learn from them and then move on? Don't you paint because you love to, not because you have to?"
ME: ...(frustrated silence)... Shut up.
But he was right. I had long ago stopped finding enjoyment in working on those pieces, and yet I still clung to their current importance. I thought I was supposed to. I mean, this is my life's work, right? Artists are supposed to be suffering, aren't they?
As soon as I let go of the compulsive need to keep doing something I didn't even like doing anymore (seriously, they were a pain in the ass. Takes 20 minutes to mix a palette that gets used in 5, and the ladder acrobatics were getting old) I could start seeing them for what they had been in the past and would bring to the future. To the now. To the only moment we could ever possibly hope to live in.
So to those old pieces I bid adieu. You've served me well, wherever you end up. And to the new, I say, let's dance.