The studio was a mess. At first sight, I couldn't believe I had left dribbles of thinning medium on the glass palette, a brush standing in a tub of MS. But then, I wasn't caring much about tools those first weeks in August.
A light bulb was out. The sink was a haphazard composition of muck. And the paintings I had done over the last years all looked crude. I left Kelly where she sat gathering dust, threw Max in the trash and started scraping the glass palette with the new retractable paint scraper I had bought before abandoning ship. It sucked. I threw it on top of Max, got the ladder and changed the bulb.
|Kelly was dusty|
I didn't like any painting on the drying rack, yet I carefully poured off the clean MS from the tubs, wiped out the sludge and shampooed the brush, which had handled neglect remarkably well. I was back, but not. After puttering about about an hour, I wasn't out of breath and my leg wasn't giving me grief. I have no idea where to begin, but straightening up for the exercise of it, I had begun.