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Thank You

Before I begin my post tonight I think I need to clear something up. I think there was an awful lot of misinterpretation of my blog last night. It was after midnight when I wrote that piece. I was tired,and yes suffering from a little melancholia, but I had just finished a wonderful meal, shared with good friends, in my beautiful garden with my amazing husband. I am concerned and worried because my husband lost his job, or as he puts it, “his job lost him”, but I am not a lost sheep. When I spoke of not hearing the voice inside me I was speaking of my own voice. I was kidding when I spoke of my monkey-esque brain getting in the way of prayer, thus the use of the word monkey-esque. When I spoke of being impatient and my prayers not being answered it was in a humorous moment with Dan. I do find myself searching and wondering, but it is not because I find something lacking in my soul. I’m human, I’m worried, and despite the postings of a wife who is concerned for her husband, I have not lost faith. While I truly appreciate the thoughts and prayers sent my way, those of you who know me know that I am rather fond of finding humor in my life, particularly when talking about myself. My faith life is and always has been a private and personal relationship. I can be a bit of a loner, and it suits me to be that way in my spiritual life as well. Yes, we are going through hard times, but that is out in the world, at home I have no empty space to fill. I am a very loved woman, and in that luckier than most.

I decided tonight to post something I wrote several months ago with the intention of sending it to my local paper. Shame on me, I didn’t send it, but maybe this is better, this platform that reaches far beyond my local community. If you want to know where I live my spirituality then you need to read this.

                                                                                                                                                  MY FRIEND
I am an immigrant. No, not the kind that seems to be of great concern to everyone, the other kind, a pasty white Canadian with parents straight off the boat from Ireland. No one seems to care if I am legal (I am), but that really isn’t the point. For those of you who live in the Temecula area we suffered a significant loss recently. Most of you aren’t aware of it, particularly those who don’t attend our marvelous Saturday Farmer’s Market in Old Town. There amongst the fruits, vegetables, and restaurant fare was a man selling flowers. He wasn’t the only flower vendor, there are two or three others, but he was a gentle man with a lovely smile, and he was an immigrant. He was the immigrant you are all so concerned about, the Mexican kind. My husband and I attend the market weekly. There are many vendors there that recognize us on sight, and with those vendors we exchange pleasant greetings. The flower vendor was different. Week after week we would buy flowers from him and exchange a smile and a “Thank you”. His English was poor, our Spanish is nonexistent. The language barrier didn’t matter, or that we didn’t know his name, and he didn’t know ours, that gentle smile on that weathered face said everything. We became friends. Eventually he began to give me an extra bouquet, something he chose to add to whatever my husband was buying for me. In return I began to bring him a little something I baked, and the gift of a watercolor painting I had done of one of his sunflowers. He disappeared for a while and there was a great deal of concern for him from the people who attend the market every week. I knew this because when we asked about him, his niece told us that her uncle was recovering from surgery, and that it meant so much to her that so many people cared for him. A few months ago he returned. He looked older and a little feeble, but the smile was still there. I know that there is so much anger and even some hatred for immigrants in this country, but there are also those of us who understand who and what they are. My dad came here with a pregnant wife and two daughters because he wanted a better life. I don’t condone illegal immigration, but I wish everyone in this world could have the opportunity that we all have. I don’t know if the flower vendor was legal, I do know that by looking at his rough hands that he probably worked hard all of his life. Maybe we can all set aside a little of our hostility and stop and really look at one another. Many of you couldn’t or wouldn’t do the kind of work that would give a man hands like that. There has to be a better solution than anger. There needs to be compassion and understanding. Two weeks ago when we attended the Farmer’s Market we saw a picture of him surrounded with flowers. The flower vendor has passed away. For those of us who saw him weekly we will miss that smile. I will miss my friend.

For those of you that were lovely enough to offer the gift of your faith, your church, I thank you, but I have found mine in the face of humanity.

Tonight I am working on the last of the three portraits that I’m doing, but instead of posting the work in progress, I am posting the sunflower I painted for my friend, it’s brilliance could never match his smile. God bless you my friend.May 2011 199

For Mom

It’s early evening here in Temecula and I haven’t attempted anything new for the day. Busy work in the garage, and to be honest a little stressed about stuff I can’t seem to let go of. There is also this, I know I mentioned it earlier in the month, but today is the sixth anniversary of my Mom’s passing. Never an easy day. I inherited “not good enough” from her. She never realized how fantastic she was. I am hoping that this project will eventually free me from myself, and maybe in some way she will gain something through me. I also realize that my daughter has a hint of the “not good enough” and I want to vanish it from her life too.

Speaking of “not good enough”, I mentioned it last night, and boy was it back this morning. I worked on Kelsey this morning because I wasn’t happy about it last night. The other issue is that I wait so long in the day to work that by the time I’m finishing up its dark outside, and I’m tired, and I don’t work with enough light…excuses, excuses, but all true. The stuff I can’t let go of? Perfectionism. I wrote last night of how Kelsey’s portrait didn’t give me any trouble. That was then, this is now. I worked that little baby’s portrait over and over, I almost ruined it by dropping a big blob of water on her poor little face. I finally put it down. I spoke to my daughter Jessica about it later in the morning. She said, “Mom, if they just wanted a picture they’d take one.” She’s right. I need to get it through my stubborn Irish skull that I’m not a Xerox machine (if you are too young to know what that is, google it!) I am an artist, I am evoking a feeling, or an essence, not a Sear’s portrait. I took on the garage stuff today because I needed to shake this off. I was doing so well, progressing and feeling confident. I’m not sure what happened that set me back…ding! Light bulb just went off. Most of the art I have been producing these last few months wasn’t for anyone. There were one or two pieces for Dan and Theresa, but they are like my other halves. It is because it is for someone else. My new family. Do I think they are going to get the portraits and put a big red check in the middle, or publish a bad review in the local paper, of course not. But I’m me, and I want them to love the portraits of their children. I’m sure they will, because this isn’t about them, it’s about me and my issues. I’m sure I’m slightly insane, and that all will be well. I just have to remember that “not good enough” is very sneaky, and will find the crack in the door if I leave it open even the slightest bit.

Two hours later…

I talked to Dan about how I was feeling, and of course his words pretty much echoed Jessica’s. I was in fear of being judged, thus the “revisiting”. Finally I just began to cry. It’s a hard enough day, and I make it harder on myself. In the midst of all of it another light bulb moment. There is always a root for every problem, and sometimes the person who planted it doesn’t even realize they are doing it. When I was a little girl, and had already begun to show talent, my dad handed me a photo of John Kennedy and asked me to draw it for him. In my recollection I was around five, but at the very least I was seven, because I still remember where I was sitting when he asked. He walked away and I cried because I didn’t know how to draw that picture and I didn’t want to let him down. Who knows what he was thinking. It’s a sad memory, but Dan said at least now I know where my lack of confidence started. Maybe I should rename the blog “365 Days to Psycho Analyze Yourself”, lots of stuff going on in my head these days. I want to say right now to my two children, if I have ever said something that made you think you weren’t good enough, I’m sorry. You have both always been amazing and the joy of my life.

Tonight, something for my mother. When she died her coffin was covered in yellow roses ordered by my dad. I don’t remember yellow roses being her favorite flower, they are his. I know that because my mom told me so. I remember lilacs, and that she smelled like Heaven Scent when I was young. I had some small pieces of wood, left overs from something, they aren’t even cut straight. Lilacs in acrylic on wood. Love you Mom.

7 22

Just Listen

Late night post, one of those days when I over schedule myself. I always think I can do more than time allows for.  Alas, as always neglecting to put myself first, and again not making art a priority. I think I’m producing good work these days, but I also think that I could produce better work if I gave it the time. It seems to me that too many of us feel guilty when we give to ourselves. What a difference we could all make in our own lives if we  allowed ourselves the time to be quiet and find what it is we love. The noise and obligation of every day life drowns out our inner voices. Have you ever tried to hear yours? I wake nearly every day to a promise that today will be the day where I make that time for me, and every time I make that promise I break it. I am the kind of person who is good for their word. If I say that I will do something then it gets done even if I don’t feel like it. Not for myself.  Do you make the New Year’s list? The list of all the ways you will be better? My life is that list. A trail of paper lists and empty notebooks. It really is my last hurdle. Lately I’ve been cleaning out boxes of paper. So many hours lost tearing out ideas for projects, paintings, or just stuff to read. The collecting became the project. Not that I didn’t do a few. There always needs to be something to justify what I’m doing, a promise of something on the road ahead is better than the thought of an empty life, so every now and then I would look through the boxes and do something. Mostly I just reorganized the paper. I’m done with that. Maybe it’s time to stop making promises before time runs out. I did however notice that the piles of papers to read had a recurring theme, self-esteem. (The O magazine in particular, it’s like the self-help bible) I had an epiphany of sorts today. As I was looking through the papers I realized that I no longer want or need to read those self-esteem articles. This project has done incredible things for me. I’m not all the way home where my self-esteem is concerned, but following through on this one promise to myself has made a difference, it has introduced me to some confidence in my artistic life, something I never thought I’d have. I just realized that maybe I had my quiet moment and it led me here.

Tonight a Hollyhock in watercolor on paper. I love Hollyhocks, they apparently do not like me. I planted some three years ago in my garden. They lived for a few months and were gone. I was very upset that they didn’t return the next Spring. They did return, but not for me. They have been lurking on the other side of the fence. The side where a neighbor who does not care lives. For the entire summer there have been two dead stalks of something that tower over the fence. How does she not see them? Why doesn’t she cut them down? Why are they bothering me so much? And then it shows its face, the Hollyhock, my Hollyhock (I know she didn’t plant them), tangled up with the dead stalks, peering over my fence, taunting me. Betrayed by a garden flower.

 

7 18

Two Of A Kind

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Last night I promised the “Natalie” nickname story, but before I get into that I wanted to explain my choice of title and subject for this evening. Two of a kind. As I  explained the other day, as a child I looked just like my dad. Neither of my two children look exactly like me. My son resembles Dan’s family much more than he does mine, although my Dad claims that Brian looks like him. (Of course, because he is handsome. See Natalie story at the bottom of the page, it will explain everything) Brian has my teeth, famously known around here as “Osmond” teeth, they’re big, Osmond big. When I was younger I could do a mean Marie. She and I are only days apart in age, although my face still looks like me. (Just saying..) Jessica is a real mixture of her Dad and I. When she was younger she resembled him more, now I see a lot of myself. I bring this up because the piece I painted tonight is from a photo Jessica took in Ireland. In 2009 my Dad wanted to take all four of his daughters, their husbands, and the eight grandchildren to Ireland.  I didn’t go. Love my family dearly, but me on a bus with my family for ten days would not have been pretty. Fortunately my lovely husband and I were celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary.  Oh, so sorry, can’t go to Ireland because I’m going to Paris. (Have I mentioned how much I love my husband?)  I had also been to Ireland twice before, and had dreamed of going to Paris my entire life. No question about which trip I was taking. So, while my children were in Ireland with my family, (Ha ha) I was in France with the love of my life. This is where the two of a kind part comes in. I took more than two thousand pictures in France, Jessica wasn’t too far behind in Ireland. Two different countries, two different photographers, the pictures? Interchangeable. We take the same shots the same way. Same angles, same detail shots, same composition. The only difference is that she occasionally allows humans into hers, mine are landscape only. (I even photo-shopped an unfortunate tourist out of one of my pictures, sorry. She really shouldn’t have been wearing those sweat pants.  And, because no one told everyone to get off Monet’s bridge over the water lilies in Giverny….gone, sorry once again)  Jessica is also very artistic, a graphic designer by trade. Beautiful work and I’m not even biased.

When Brian was small he began to paint, he was three. He would watch Wile e Coyote and the Roadrunner and then paint desert scenes. I was thrilled. Then he grew a little and realized we might have something in common (God forbid!) so he quit. I think he spent years denying he actually had a mother. One of the nicest things that has happened with this project is that my son now wants me to teach him how to paint. I’ve waited nearly twenty years to hear that lovely request.  I might also add he has a good eye for photography as well. I’m a proud mother OK?

The “Natalie” story. Here it is… my Dad, as I have stated previously is quite a character. He is also quite narcissistic. He is a good-looking man, even now at eighty he still looks good, and since he sounds like he just got off the boat, (he got off in 1956) his brogue is quite attractive to the ladies. Since I looked like him as a child he gave me the nickname Natalie. No it isn’t my middle name, that is Frances. (I’m named for Jackie Kennedy, middle initial F., last initial A. Get it? J.F.A….J.F.K.? We’re Irish Catholic need I say more?) Natalie is for the beautiful Natalie Wood. Why? Because I looked like my Dad and if he were a woman he would look like Natalie Wood. Really. I wouldn’t lie to you. Slightly twisted, but you have to admit entertaining. By the way, my artistic talent isn’t mine, its his. He told me so. It’s kind of like osmosis, his thoughts, his ideas, my hands, I kid you not.

So in honor of my slightly strange Dad, and because I love him, a little watercolor of his favorite place on Earth, Ireland. Photo by Jessica, painting by Jackie (alias Mom)

7 17

We Are All Artists

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OK, I know last night I said I would be entertaining all of you (and me) with my writing, and had intended on telling you all the reason behind the “Natalie” nickname, (which really is worth the wait…stay tuned until tomorrow) but then I received a comment from someone who reads this blog. ( This is where I’ll be getting all philosophical again) The person who sent me a comment (and I publicly thank you again) said that they wished they were talented like me. What he failed to realize, and I told him so in my reply, is that he is an artist. I read his blog, a place where spirituality is the subject. Beautiful words, beautifully written, as I said in reply, he paints pictures with his words and prayers. In my family we all have our assigned roles. My older sister is the smart, educated one, I am next, the weirdo, the artist, the quiet one, then there is the funny one, and finally the baby. We all have so much more to offer than those labels would imply. (To respect their privacy I will only use initials) M is the oldest, and yes, very smart and the most educated, but she is also very gifted with her hands, just in a different way than me. Sewing, knitting, needlework, beautiful, beautiful work. I am next, obviously artistic, but also very smart, and on occasion quite funny. C is next. Funniest woman I know. I can’t spend an evening with her without crying from laughter. G, “The Baby”, is anything but a baby. Strong, smart, and I think the most athletic of us (we know it’s not me). Unfortunately, despite how much our parents love us, sometimes they just don’t think. M’s creativity is overlooked, it isn’t her place, it’s mine. C was complaining once to my dad (not sure about what), his response? “Look at Jackie, sure she can paint but she has no personality”.  (And one wonders why I have issues) C is a very intelligent woman, who can multi task with no match, and an artist in the garden. (Note to the powers that be at Wrigley Field, this woman will give you a playing field to die for, and she’s a fan) She has no appreciation of how smart she is. She had two concussions as a child within weeks of each other. The story of how smart she was before “the accident” is family legend. The implication might make you think she was brain-damaged, not so much, very smart lady, and no one can be that quick-witted and dumb.  Finally G, as I said nobody’s baby. She ends up in management where ever she works. Also a beautiful baker, makes gorgeous pastries, creative right? The mere fact that anyone is writing a blog is creative. Putting a beautiful meal on the table is creative. Composing a speech, writing a song, raising a child, each is creative. We all have it within us to be an artist. My point is that we all have something to offer, it doesn’t have to be with a brush or a pencil, those are just my tools of choice.

And by the way, I have been told that I actually do have a personality.

For tonight, my handsome son Brian. I saw a photo in the LA Times many years ago that I loved. This afternoon Brian was kind enough to sit for a portrait for me, posed in a similar way to the photo as I remembered it. Watercolor on paper.IMG_0341

Expanding The Horizon

It’s early, at least for my writing, only eight forty in the morning here in California, but I find myself already thinking about what I want to write this evening. If you read my ramblings on a regular basis, you know that it primarily has to do with what I have created and why, and though it still sneaks in from time to time, I believe the blog has become a little less “woe is me”. To be honest I’m boring myself just a little. I think I need to change things up. I’m not talking about abandoning the project, I fully intend to see it through, but maybe to expand beyond the talk of the what and why I create art. I have noticed that when I check out many of the people who “like” my postings, their blogs reveal a great deal more about them. It isn’t as though I haven’t told a story or two, but I’ve definitely held back. The photo on my blog isn’t even me, it’s my grandmother, I just love the picture, and frankly never like the ones of myself. I may have mentioned that my dear friend Theresa, has often told me that I need to “put it in the book”, by that she means the never-ending stories of the funny, not so funny and weird things that have happened in my life. I think it may have something to do with my Irish heritage, I hear that we are “gifted” story tellers. I think that it may have more to do with my Irish parents, my dad in particular, he can be quite a character. My intention at the end of this year of blogging was to have the blog and its accompanying art turned into a book for my two children. Something they could have of their mother, as I have very little of mine. So, tonight there will be art, maybe a little something about the piece, but a little more about me and my life.

I have mentioned that I won my first art competition in the third grade, I haven’t however revealed the project I made, or the inspiration. As mentioned above, I’m Irish, but my dad looked just a little Asian as a child. (Weird, I know) I looked exactly like my dad when I was a little girl, one of my nicknames was “Daddy’s Double”, my dad occasionally will still refer to me as “double”, although in my eyes I look a little more like my mother now. (He won’t hear of that, and I had two other nicknames, Cookie and Natalie. The second one is a whole other story for another time) My sister’s and I had our hair cut really, really short. This was thanks to some whack job doctor who told my mother that long hair holds germs, seriously. The traumatic event of having our pony tails snipped off still haunts me, maybe that’s why I still like my hair long. With my short hair and my dad’s face I looked a little Asian. We went to see the Ice Capades, and it was Chinese New Year. The beautiful skaters came out on the ice with rickshaws, they pulled children from the audience to pull around the ice, I was chosen. Now whether or not it had anything to do with how I looked I wouldn’t know, but I always thought it did. The next day at school we were asked to draw whatever we wanted, I drew a clown, but a clown with big, multicolored plumes coming from his hat, and I outlined the entire drawing very carefully in black. Completely awed and inspired by the show the night before. I was very proud of that drawing, and even more so when I won. My dad must have been too. He had that drawing in a frame for years. He finally gave it to me, but unfortunately I was in a place in my life where I just didn’t care enough. It is in pieces now, I still have those. It is a remnant of the first time in my life when I felt really special.

Tonight, just a play day with watercolor. A vintage phone, a photo of a flower that I took in France, and finally, I came across this watercolor inside one of the pads in my studio. I’m not sure when I did it, I just remember trying to recreate a sort of comic book feel.

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Separation Anxiety

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I took some time today to print out a wallet size photograph of all of the art that I have completed thus far. I’ve actually accomplished far more than I realized. I also discovered a few unfinished projects that I started as a result of this project and didn’t complete. With the exception of my oil painting of Jessica, I plan on finishing them all this week. I really want to work on the oil painting but have two weeks to wait for that doctor appointment. Many of the pieces I have done are small, very small, a few were artist cards, but there are also a few that I know I could sell. Therein lies my dilemma. I have sold at art/craft shows for years, small wooden painted pieces, folk art, some holiday ornaments, and have also worked as a muralist. What I have not done a lot of is sell my paintings. To be honest, I’ve sold only one painting. I’ve sold drawings, portraits to be exact, where I was hired to draw someone in particular. I sold my first piece of art when I was fifteen. That was the one painting I sold.  It was before I stopped believing in myself.  I actually began painting at about fourteen. Back then it was sheer enjoyment, I didn’t know enough to know that I didn’t know anything. I have loved art as long as I can remember.  The absolute rush of emotion I get when I have finished a piece that I love has been with me my whole life. When you are a shy kid, have no friends, you feel very small, you feel bad about yourself, you feel nonexistent. Art was my friend. It is my safe place.  No matter how unhappy I was I could lose myself in the creative process. Despite everything I have written in this blog about not being good enough, not feeling good enough, I still hung on. It has been for me in my life, a lifesaver. I did a lot of work I didn’t care about, not that it wasn’t good, I always do my best, but it was the craft show stuff. I don’t intend for that comment to demean what anyone else does, I just knew that I was capable of so much more.  I am beginning to do the work I have waited a lifetime to do, every piece I do means so very much to me, but I can’t keep them all, despite the fact that each and every piece of art is like one of my children. I also feel like I need to prove to myself that I can be successful at this. I realize that money doesn’t mean success in art, at least it doesn’t for me, but my family has found itself in a difficult situation and it would mean the world to me to be able to help our situation doing what I love. I know I can make prints, or keep photographs of my work, reminders for myself. I just need to send my “kids” off into the world, and just like my daughter and son, hope they find someone who loves them as much as me.

Acrylic again this evening. That shy little girl still lives inside me and she really loves a good hiding place. Maybe that explains my love of these old secret garden gates.

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My Favorite Subject

I’ve been really happy with my work from the last two nights and had planned on painting in acrylics once again. I began to look through my photos for inspiration and came across a recent photo of my husband that I took when we stopped at a lake while out on a Sunday drive. I love this photo of him, and he is a good sport about everything I do, but in particular tolerating my near constant photo taking. I can’t go for a hike without my camera, and as much as I hate my own photo taken, I show him no mercy. A few years ago we were in San Francisco and stopped at a Starbucks, as I waited in the car I used my telephoto lens to capture him in line, and every second as he waited at a light and then made his way across the street to the car. All he did was laugh. I couldn’t ask for a more supportive partner, one who encourages me, who never doubts my ability, even I am in the midst of a visit from “not good enough”, who is willing to take on whatever crazy project that I have dreamt up.  He knows that the project is complete inside my head and believes in me enough to follow through on whatever part of it I need him to help with, will cook dinner after working all day just so I can finish whatever I’m working on, and a very handsome man as well. I am a very lucky girl.

I thought about those acrylics for half a second, decided since I hadn’t bothered see if I did indeed have the additives to slow the drying process, I was returning to my watercolors. I love the results.

7 13 (4)

Under The Wire

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Late night tonight. I was here most of the day but was doing a million other things besides art. It is the one bridge I have yet to cross, the one where I make art a priority in my day. I didn’t begin to paint until a little over two hours ago. I’m not quite sure why. As I said last night, I am feeling confident, things are coming easier, but I am still doing my “homework” at the very last minute. It’s how I got through high school, but high school was a very, very long time ago. Admittedly there were days at the beginning of this project when it did feel like homework, but that feeling has long since passed. Yes, there are days when I’m not quite in the mood, but once I start working its fine. I need to start earlier in the day so that I’m not painting when my eyes are closing, or worse yet, painting in the yard when it has gotten dark. I can’t continue to work at the last minute.

I grabbed the acrylics again tonight. I admit, I was getting frustrated. Oils are so easy for shading and adding highlights. I find acrylics so difficult. Tomorrow I’m going to look through my vast amounts of crap to see if I do indeed have one of those delay drying additives, if not I may have to go get some. The painting tonight is based on the photography of someone else. Who? I have no idea. I have a lot of photos in my computer that I scanned because there was something that appealed to me, the spade that I painted was only part of a magazine page. I have been trying to stay away from painting from work that isn’t mine, but it was late, I was tired, and I just wanted something simple, (or at least I thought so) so hats off to the photographer. Thanks for the inspiration.

 

7 12

A Momenteous Occasion (For Me)

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Tonight is my 100th post. What that means for me is that I have stuck with doing something for myself, not something I’m accustomed to doing. It has only been ninety days since I began my blog, the other ten posts were of photos, and I actually haven’t posted one hundred pieces of art as I had hoped to when I reached this point. Life has a way of deciding for you what will work out. In this small span of time so much has happened that I didn’t take into consideration when I started out. There are people in my life who have had the joy of birth, the sorrow of death, loss of a job, and as for myself, illness, twice, that I hadn’t counted on, new friends, reconnecting with family, and in particular discovering who in my life really care enough to support me and my dreams. I have changed, I am finding my artistic voice, I am growing confident in my work, and I am producing more art than I have in my entire life. I always said that I never figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I still haven’t, there are far too many ways to fulfill my desire to create and I don’t want to limit myself to one. I know I don’t have to. So, I will continue on this journey and hope that it continues to be as satisfying as it has been thus far. I mentioned several posts ago that I realized that some projects will take more than a day, so that meant that at the end of this year I might not necessarily have three hundred sixty-five pieces of work. The project of using up everything in my studio over the course of this year has evolved, and as I stated before, it is my project and I make the rules. It is true that I don’t have an individual piece of art for every day because some things do take longer, but now I think I want to add that challenge to myself, to complete three hundred sixty five pieces by April 13th of next year. That’s a lot of work, but I feel confident enough to try.

For tonight I was inspired by a lovely day with friends in La Jolla. We had lunch within sight of the Pacific, it was an overcast day with an unusual sprinkling of a few rain drops. For some reason it left me feeling nostalgic. I have application on our home computer called Poladroid. It is a program that lets you change digital photos into what looks like an old Polaroid. I love it. As I was looking through my photos for inspiration tonight, I came across a photo I had added the Poladroid to. I stayed true to my promise of an attempt to paint in acrylics, and using my day as inspiration, and the idea of the old Polaroid in my head, a beach scene. I still have a hard time with acrylics from a blending standpoint. I know there are additives that can help, I may look into that. However, I am happy with my painting.

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