I've been thinking about brush strokes again lately. The movement they so clearly take the shape of is so great. I look at them, separate from whatever thing they're a part of, and I love 'em. They can be metaphors for so many things. I kinda think of myself like a brush stroke. Curling and uneven and messy.
I wanted to make some paintings that were just that. A sprawling kind of simple. An ease of movement and purpose, spreading colours in these wispy shapes. I kinda admire them too. Like maybe they're what I want to be. Maybe I should be more like them.
Sometimes I don't think of myself simply enough. It's easy to overcomplicate something like life or yourself as a person. It's easy to worry that you're too this or that, or that you're dying, or that your days aren't planned out right. We get to decide something about what it means to be people. Sometimes I hate being a person. Sometimes I love it. Sometimes I'm indifferent and concentrating on fictional characters instead (currently Beatrice Prior and Tobias Eaton).
There's always a little something about singular brush strokes that I'd like to emulate.