The word 'framed' reminded me of the painting that I HAVEN'T been working on for about a year. It's unframed and unfinished because at the beginning of each painting, I delude myself into thinking that painting is a 'fun' thing that 'calms' me down when it is, in fact, quite the opposite. Painting stresses me out and causes me to cuss like a gay sailor getting a hand job from Captain Hook. Although I don't know why he would cuss because I'm sure Captain Hook would be smart enough to do a hand job with his good hand right? Let's pretend he's not so we can hurry up and move this sad little post along...).
Here he is, my unframed, unfinished orange Elvis in all his half painted glory ...I don't know where to take it from here and even if I did, I don't know if I can get there without bludgeoning an innocent bystander with a paintbrush because I can't get my shadows 'just so.' I literally get heart palpitations when I pick up the paintbrush because I feel like every brush stroke will just fuck up what's already not perfect. In my many attempts in life to be Zen with all my endeavors and actions, I'm a big fat fail in the painting department. (<-- wow, how obnoxiously California hackey sack playing, pushy vegan hippie did THAT last sentence sound? Don't bother. I'm kicking myself in the balls for you right now for writing that ridiculous sentence and then going on about how ridiculous it is. Jeesh. Why are you friends with me??)
In my head, I am like Joan Crawford, mentally punishing myself with a wire hanger for not getting the painting perfect the first time. Why should it even be perfect anyways? It's not like I'm being commissioned by the Pope to paint it for the Vatican. (Although, I really think a fresco of Elvis in papal robes would liven up the place.) The painting is supposed to be for ME to enjoy (the act of painting and the end result) but so far, getting me to enjoy anything about this whole process is proving to be a hard task. Who knew I was such a diva when it came to painting?
In an attempt to force myself to finish it, I thought that moving the painting and my arts supplies into my bedroom would do the trick. However, it was easier said than done. I would remind myself to go get the painting out of the garage and conveniently forget when I took my next breath. It was finally viking hubby telling me 'You'll never finish that thing...' combined with his know-it-all sneer that made me put the painting in the bedroom. I might not be able to finish it but I'll be damned if someone actually EXPECTED me not to finish it. The next half (my art supplies) took the longest because I couldn't find them for a good month (we moved twice last year so just remembering what box my
And now that they're both in my room..still, nothing. My painting and the supplies glare at me every time I walk past it to check my email (Facebook) and wishes me bad shit squirts when I walk out of the room barely acknowledging my orange failure. Sometimes, when I do look at poor Elvis in all his orange emptiness, I find myself apologizing and imploring it to help me.
"Oh Elvis, I know you're going to be great but please tell me what to do with you? Should I go with 70's Elvis or 50's Elvis, super hero Elvis, cholo Elvis, crying emo Elvis, Japanese Elvis? Should it be melancholy, triumphant or 20 dollar hotel room art style? Should I paint you with a scarf, do I need to make the mutton chops muttonerrrer? Yes I know your face is too square! And of course I'm going to paint you with higher cheek bones you bitch, that's what done made you purty! How about painting a plate of fried peanut butter and banana sandwich next to you? Should I use bacon grease as a medium for maximum realism? Tell me what to do orange Elvis! I don't want to stain your greatness with a heavy hand, the wrong color palatte and a tall glass of painting insecurity. I will do anything you tell me to do (except hands, I can't paint hands, they end up looking like a clubbed foot.)
But Elvis just stares at me, disappointed that I can't even take the time to do two quick brush strokes to fix his glasses that aren't even and looks like they're melting off his face. He's given up hope that I"ll ever finish him.
So why even paint you ask? Because inevitably, I like the finished product, even with all the imperfections and my amateur status glaring at the observer, I'm almost always happy when I finish a painting. And despite my fears and trepidation about finishing this thing, I know I will do it eventually and I'll be happy with the end result. I have high hopes that orange Elvis will make it to the finish line and finally get FRAMED and hung in the guest bedroom where I will force its glorious hideousness on unsuspecting family and friends who had the bad idea of staying with us.
But then again I could easily just say fuck it and put in a bid for a cheese puffs Elvis painting on Ebay. That guy pisses me off for A. Being so good and B. for making me want cheese puffs.