Sometimes it's a song that triggers it. Sometimes it's just a blank page. Sometimes it's a voice or a lack thereof. Often it's a dangerous cocktail.
The soul then indulges, it delves deeper, soaking it up faster. A soul greedy for melancholy, feeding itself like a hot ember igniting with a light breeze.
|Unfinished Insidious Bubbles.|
I've been hiding in my art these days. Melancholia is prolific. I've painted three paintings and I'm working on another inspired by this post (pictured above). They are relatively large watercolours.
All I want to do is paint these days. I have ideas... lots of ideas, and to think that I didn't have any at all when I did my first painting. They came rushing at me like a tsunami in full force. The bubbles are possibly going to be a series... I want to play with different combinations of colours and textures, inside and outside of the bubbles. It's funny too, the bubbles painting came after I had started this post. I had a clear image in my head of that sponge sopping up ink and I went to look for an image on google, but didn't find one. It became a necessity to create that image. I quite like it as it is now, but I'm going to give some of the bubbles some texture, maybe even some colour.