Something so magical about drinking wine and laughing over ideas of paint and beauty. I adore the lines of words that jump across the ceiling from mouths to the sparks in my iris.
I’m walking in the paint tonight. The pigments are hard in the air and a fan blows the wet over the dee edges of the threaded watercolor paper. So thick and wild like a woven coffee bag from Salvidor. Coffee beans are the only thing I can think of the reminds me such a perfect pongentness.
As my blood feels hot I open my bay window to let the cold 40-degree air in so my painter madness doesn’t get the best of my waiting in the drying game. Paint has its own timetable and we dry out waiting for it to make up its mind.