My world of words is still pretty much silent.
I guess I’ll stay in this alternative artistic reality of shapes and colours until I come out of the emotional void I’ve been struggling with for months.
It feels strange. I’m not a painter; I’m a writer. I’ve been one since I learned how to read and write, and started making stories in my head. On the other hand, even though I studied art history and learned how to appreciate art, I don’t know how to draw, and I don’t understand perspective. And now, I feel like a cheater, a stranger in a strange land trying to blend in.
Fluid art is therapeutic and relaxing, though, and I hope I’ll continue to play with paints and canvases once my true self re-emerges.
I apologize to my fellow bloggers for this recent lack of communication.
The good news – I spent several hours yesterday writing.
So I’ll be back, I promise.
You are not the first person I’ve heard say that fluid art is therapeutic. On the flip side, I find mindless journaling therapeutic. It’s writing, yes, but no one else ever sees it, and I go off on wild tangents!
I guess any kind of artistic engagement helps, regardless the quality of final product, but it’s interesting how my inner state of mind dictates what I’m going to do – writing, reading, or painting.