These may be the worst pictures I've ever taken, and I've taken some pretty poor ones in the last eight years. I snapped these for my benefit - not so much to publish - but, we're all friends here so what the hay.
I've never liked pink. Even as a girl I don't remember liking pink, but suddenly about a year-and-a-half ago pink began to appeal. She seemed warm and pretty and flattering instead of cloying and juvenile and ick. This is Ben Moore's Queen Anne Pink, which is close to a Fowler-y pink, though less red (I think.)
I liked it, you know - the process. I knew that I would. Entirely unconstrained. I paint at night, when the house is quiet. I should be tired, but I'm excited as I dip the brush in the can and pull one flat edge against the side, watching the excess fall back into the pail and fill the narrow trough that rings the rim.
I loved the freedom of this project. When I painted the other mural, I worked close. I was eye-to-eye with the blossoms and branches. But this time, I stretched the brush up over my head as far as my hand would reach. I loved the indulgence of moving my whole arm, of turning my wrist and watching the petals appear.
But I hated the daisies. I hated them at first sight. I kept thinking I would grow to like them. They were just as I'd imagined them to be, except that I thought they would delight me and I loathed them instead. There was only one thing to do. I painted over and started again.
Part III, the finale (far from grand) tomorrow. (Really, it might be tomorrow. Three posts in three days. Who knew?)
