Frances Harber
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Frances Harber
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Something remarkable happens when you let go of a canvas. It's artsy fruit fly life is done. The decision to abort is abundantly clear. The path is unclear. So I start swishing on new colours, listening to George Ezra. This is fun. The colours gleam brightly for a moment, reacting violently to change. I hold the brush of power and persuasion. It's just paint. Just marks. So why am I starting to feel edgy? Keep singing, George. ,
I use my palette knife to scrape the excess off. In gobs. I watch hopelessly while the colours merge into an depressing pale hospital dirty pink. It's late afternoon so it's okay to think maybe wine will help. Wow, who knew George could be so annoying! The above canvas was so hideous I picked up a cloth and started washing the surface down. Really, by now, I just wanted to save the canvas because I didn't want to go to the art supply store. Yes, I am lazy and cheap. Despite all the abuse heaped upon it, something had stuck. Soft shadows of the original work clung to the canvas, as well as the muted cacophony of other colours that I had hurled. Striations from the palette knife were revealed too. Everything became so soft. And friendly. I was left with a beautiful multicoloured, textured surface, one that I could not have imagined. Like magic, the sun was in my head! I once stared for hours at a Matisse painting called "Purple Robe and Anenomes". I had not thought about that painting for years and suddenly I knew this surface would be perfect to create a line painting emphasizing round, straight, thin, fat, solid and weak. I drew, but the canvas had already painted itself. I am so happy with the surprise of this canvas, The Little Chat. And, just so you know, I never did grab the glass the wine.
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June 2019
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