An hour and a half's worth of work...
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| Now I know what people mean when they say the room's lighting fucks shit up. |
My brain gets hell of fried when I force myself to paint.
This time I listened to more EDM while simultaneously playing an episode of Hoarders in the background.
As far as the quality of my work is concerned, this little experiment of forcefully painting has proved that it's... uh... strange. I'm pretty obvious when I reach my breaking point... I mean, look at that white streak on her left leg. While the painting can't talk, that shit pretty much screams "My brain stopped giving a shit riiiiight here."
As far as my mood is concerned, the forceful painting has helped in clearing my mind. It does such a wonderful job turning me into a blank slate, I'm honestly having a difficult time writing this up. I'm committing a shit ton of simple mistakes... adding unnecessary letters, leaving out e's and s's-- those two seem to be the letters I neglect the most.
I also notice I lose track of time when I paint... hence the Hoarders episodes in the background... it's the only way I can keep track of time (don't resort to my phone because that shit would just distract me).
My feelings about the painting? I'm not nearly as embarrassed about it as I am about others. I feel free to hate it publicly... well, I mean, if someone were to see it, I wouldn't blush... I'd just feel comfortable saying "Oh, that shit... I forced myself to draw that shit as an experiment. Feel free to observe it and notice my mood shifts based on the strokes of paint. Feel free to hate it-- I hate it too."
Anyway, I'm done with the painting for today, since that's all the torture I can subject myself to for now.
Tomorrow I'll gun for the hands and face... goddamn hands... I've never been able to draw that shit.
Ew. No. I prefer finishing the white frills... that is grossly ignored.
This time I listened to more EDM while simultaneously playing an episode of Hoarders in the background.
As far as the quality of my work is concerned, this little experiment of forcefully painting has proved that it's... uh... strange. I'm pretty obvious when I reach my breaking point... I mean, look at that white streak on her left leg. While the painting can't talk, that shit pretty much screams "My brain stopped giving a shit riiiiight here."
As far as my mood is concerned, the forceful painting has helped in clearing my mind. It does such a wonderful job turning me into a blank slate, I'm honestly having a difficult time writing this up. I'm committing a shit ton of simple mistakes... adding unnecessary letters, leaving out e's and s's-- those two seem to be the letters I neglect the most.
I also notice I lose track of time when I paint... hence the Hoarders episodes in the background... it's the only way I can keep track of time (don't resort to my phone because that shit would just distract me).
My feelings about the painting? I'm not nearly as embarrassed about it as I am about others. I feel free to hate it publicly... well, I mean, if someone were to see it, I wouldn't blush... I'd just feel comfortable saying "Oh, that shit... I forced myself to draw that shit as an experiment. Feel free to observe it and notice my mood shifts based on the strokes of paint. Feel free to hate it-- I hate it too."
Anyway, I'm done with the painting for today, since that's all the torture I can subject myself to for now.
Tomorrow I'll gun for the hands and face... goddamn hands... I've never been able to draw that shit.
Ew. No. I prefer finishing the white frills... that is grossly ignored.
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