A hive of frustration buzzes under Thalia’s fleece hood as she dabs, and dabs, and dabs some more.
Calliope reaches across the table and sets a feather-light hand on her friend’s forearm.
Nia evaluates. “The eyes? Too high and close together? Makes it look like a — flying possum?”
Tal’s giggle melds and floats with the scent of lavender-scented candle. “Hoooo can we sehhnd it to?”
A painting is always finished before the artist thinks it is.
The overwork boundary often lies in the grey zone between the intuitive mode and controlled rendering.
The fine art is in watching yourself in the act of intuiting.
The main antidote is to scrape off and start over.