I could be painting, but I'm eating.

I could be painting, but I'm eating.

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My studio

(fancy word for the children's old bedroom, fixed up with lights and stuff)

is ready to go. I organized the disaster of cycloned detritus, left over from days of "I'll sort things out later." Thanks and praise to dear S. for all her encouragement. Well, of course T. was nagging the whole time, but S. was nicer about it. The easel is up and the painting is started. Gotta get myself in there.

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I could be painting, but I'm writing.
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The drawing is done, the wash is started, drawing's redone, drawing's redone again, drawing needs to be redone again. Thanks A. for the perspective on perspective, thanks, but I still need HELP!

The paints tubes are in tubs ready to go.

Brushes stand alert.

Turpentine in jars await in the garage.

Rags aplenty.

Apron hangs on the easel.

Gloves in a box on a shelf.

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I could be painting, but I'm thinking.

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It's Saturday. I've perused the news.

Found a cool article about friends who make violins and cellos.

(give article to musician son coming tomorrow from NYC)

I had toast, I had coffee, I had tea.

I slopped around in the gutter to get some praise from T.

"I helped you dig out the gutter!"

(Well, I took pictures while he dug out the gutter isn't that help?)

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I could be painting, but I'm following the old man around checking the perimeter of the storm ravaged property.

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Now I have the day left to paint.

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Should I ride?

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No, I should paint.

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Now?

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After this post.

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What about those books I got at the used bookstore?

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Later.

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But one book's all about Marie Antionnette, that's history!

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Shut up and go squish out oil paint. Squish it out and start brushing.

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But the perspective is still wrong.

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Too bad, get out the paints and get brushes.

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O.K. but I gotta fix the sketch first.

Phooey.