After kvetching about the difficulty of working on a large (3' by 4') canvas, guess what? The image which is demanding the Leviathon is one I took from a plane window. The glorious landscape which unrolled itself before me was simply much too grand for anything smaller. So here I am again, in a studio which remains seven by ten despite my attempts to enlarge it by means of mind control. The width of working space I have is not quite four feet across, with the result that yet again like a Dancing with the Stars male lead I am rotating and sliding this monster of a canvas around.
Unfortunately, I seem to have lost my show biz touch. Granted, Brainsex (the best overview of M.I.T. research on gender differences I have ever read) did report that the average male is better than the average female at rotating a three-dimensional object in space. My parking reliably demonstrates this theorem. I remind you that there are many tasks at which the female brain trumps the male, but that is not my point here. As Brainsex predicted, my three-dimensional canvas, though only an inch and a half deep, failed to complete one of my rotations. Somehow, mid-somersault, I had managed to wedge the top rail onto the adjustment screw at a tilt of about 70 degrees both sideways and front-to-back and there the wet canvas hung despite heroic efforts to pull it off.
To make things worse, I had a date with a five-year old friend; Grace is an art aficianado with an inquisitive mind. My watercolour kit was packed and ready to go. All I had to do was to wrestle the blasted canvas off the easel so that it could dry in a flat position. I briefly considered calling the fire department but reason weighed in. Teetering on my stepstool-for-big-paintings, I reflected on the possible headlines: "Artist Throws Herself into Painting" or "Novel Method of Applying Makeup Proves Fatal." Suddenly the blinking thing released, and I staggered backward and fell over a footstool, smeared with burnt umber and white but triumphant.
Grace and I had a lovely time. It may be a while before I get all of the marbling off the stone walls in the studio, though.
Unfortunately, I seem to have lost my show biz touch. Granted, Brainsex (the best overview of M.I.T. research on gender differences I have ever read) did report that the average male is better than the average female at rotating a three-dimensional object in space. My parking reliably demonstrates this theorem. I remind you that there are many tasks at which the female brain trumps the male, but that is not my point here. As Brainsex predicted, my three-dimensional canvas, though only an inch and a half deep, failed to complete one of my rotations. Somehow, mid-somersault, I had managed to wedge the top rail onto the adjustment screw at a tilt of about 70 degrees both sideways and front-to-back and there the wet canvas hung despite heroic efforts to pull it off.
To make things worse, I had a date with a five-year old friend; Grace is an art aficianado with an inquisitive mind. My watercolour kit was packed and ready to go. All I had to do was to wrestle the blasted canvas off the easel so that it could dry in a flat position. I briefly considered calling the fire department but reason weighed in. Teetering on my stepstool-for-big-paintings, I reflected on the possible headlines: "Artist Throws Herself into Painting" or "Novel Method of Applying Makeup Proves Fatal." Suddenly the blinking thing released, and I staggered backward and fell over a footstool, smeared with burnt umber and white but triumphant.
Grace and I had a lovely time. It may be a while before I get all of the marbling off the stone walls in the studio, though.
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