This is the part I was dreading. It's like the time when a child stops being cute and hasn't yet become beautiful again -- or mediocre, average, presentable or whatever -- usually right before the discovery of braces, flat irons and tweezers. This is when a painting stops being exciting in its newness and potential and begins the long, sloppy road toward completion. It feels a lot like the years I spent with fanged teeth and a unibrow.
I knew when I dedicated to documenting a painting that I would spend more time agonizing over its adolescence than admiring its emerging beauty. That's because most of the time it takes a lot of shoddy brushwork, wonky color schemes and awkward areolas to get to the point. There are mistakes to remedy, compositions to pin down and eyes to be brought down from the top of foreheads. And the incessant game of ping-pong my ego plays with itself.
There's nothing like seeing your vision be beaten to a bleeding, disproportionate pulp to bring you back down to reality. That's when my ego takes to her sick bed. But then, when the paint starts to wrap itself around an actual human form, she peaks her head out. We'll talk when the fever breaks. And when my eyeballs are in the right spot on my head.