I may lose all hope. I'm in the middle of a commission. An oil painting. 3'x4'. Vaguely representing Madrid with a particular building as the focal point. I have started and restarted this thing at least a dozen times, sketches of running bulls liter my studio, paint in various degrees of congealment are to be found in the most unlikely of places while several brushes languish, un-attended, in a glass jar of mineral spirits.
I love this painting, I hated it before, but it's coming together now, I can see it. It's going to happen. It's also going to be a couple months late and a huge undertaking to finish before Feburary is out. I may lose my mind before then, hopefully a steady diet of clear lagers and hash keep my eyed screwed straight.
When someone pays you a fairly large sum of money without ever seeing the product you are going to produce, (AND GOD BLESS HER FOR THAT) strange ghosts appear in my mind as I am painting. It is no longer important what I want or what I think feels right for the piece. There is a silent critic in the corner, judging everything, watching my every move, calling me out for being lazy or trite or for my music selection. “Of Montreal” and “Portugal” are getting heavy airtime for a painting about Espania.
On one hand it makes me better, but on every other hand it's hard to get anything done when your constantly questioning yourself. Fuck it. I'm painting what I know will be great, I will put down on canvas the best goddamn painting I can conjure up at this particular juncture of my life, and if she hates it, then... I don't know what then. I'll probably duck behind some pretentious wall of superior artistic license and hope no one pokes it hard enough to see it crumble.