Trying to do a painting of my daughter. it has all the elements of her – short hair, slightly arched eyebrows, brown eyes – yet it’s not her. Capturing likeness eludes me.
I was at a farmer’s market in an old agricultural building. The washroom was in the basement – a cavernous room designed to accommodate fairground crowds of former days. Along one wall was a row of about two dozen sinks. When i went to wash my hands, the first tap I turned on didn’t have water, nor did the second. I was about to try a third when a woman washing her hands at a sink down the line suggested I look for the basins that were wet. The next faucet I turned on had water. It made me realize that I’m so used to being spoon-fed every convenience that I’ve stopped noticing as a way to figure things out.
The woman pulled her cart up beside me to wait for the teller who was serving me. The bank manager told her to step away and give me space. I assured the woman that she didn’t have to move anywhere on my account and she stayed where she was.
When I turned back to the counter, the manager and I locked eyes. She looked annoyed and somehow betrayed, as though I’d failed to join forces with her. I could feel the annoyance on my own face – and disbelief that the bank should condone this kind of behaviour toward vulnerable clients. It made me think about how much rudeness is carried out in the name of propriety.
it boggles the mind how hard it is to paint a small white bird. I went over this one many times. Eventually, the acrylic was so clotted that I had to leave it. (The flowers, on the other hand, just happened.)