I lied. My block is broken, but my obsession with getting what I see down as I see it isn't over.
After just one day sitting on the side, one look at the painting this morning said the tree trunks were too white, too blanched, too dead.
I went to the studio to find my photograph of strawberry tortes; I planned to begin the drawing for painting two of the Chocolate Mice triptych. I never opened my file. My tree trunks lacked color; they needed life. I tinted the white with Cadmium yellow light. One color lead to another and the painting got brighter, warmer. Is it done? G-d I hope so. But I'll see how it strikes me when I walk into the studio today.
I heard that the first born child in families is the perfectionist. I'm a first born. I would have preferred to be the third. However, it's the opinion of this first born that the shadows in the painting, are improved and the trees are a bit more defined. The attraction to bare trees for me is the play of the lines of branches and twigs. This attraction, fascination, is why Winter is going to to be a bear. I do not look forward to it.