I find myself thinking about this word a lot lately. Recently saw it defined as someone who indulges in something [most often an artform] without commitment. And I realize there are underlying connotations of Bad® here. Where did those connotations come from? Which gatekeepers determine how much commitment qualifies you as a true Artiste® as opposed to a dilettante?

I once heard David Bowie described as a dilettante, because of the stylistic variety of his work. He'd work with a sound for an album or two, then move on to a new one. He investigated things that interested him for as long as they interested him. He made the art he felt like making. Why is this a bad thing?

Along similar lines, I've been thinking about how amateur and professional have come to be used as terms to describe the quality of work. But, strictly speaking, neither word has anything to do with that. The amateur works for the love of the work; the professional works to earn a living. Full stop. There are amateurs whose work is astonishingly accomplished and wonderful, and professionals who manage to make a career doing work that is not particularly good.

I feel like it's time to reclaim these words. The value judgments we've attached to them are not inherent to the terms themselves: they are arbitrary additions which can be done without. I am a dilettante, and quite content to be one.

This morning I learned a bit more about my Sheltie sale. Apparently, it was bought by a lady who owned a Sheltie for seventeen years and was very fond of it. And the painting reminded her of hers, so that moved her to get it. This is exactly the sort of buyer I was hoping to get for that piece, and I feel like it found a good home.

My 47^th acrylic is [clearly] an abstract — black border added digitally to brighten the look of the warm colours on-screen. This piece feels like an important lesson/step forward for me... in that I can be reasonably sure that no one else will like it [so far, no one has], but I am confident in it anyway. I had a clear idea what I wanted to do, and I can see that I did it. So for the first time with an abstract, I feel like I don't need external validation to make it feel worth doing. P.S.: photos really don't do justice to these colours, but I have to make do.

A dull, wet morning here is being brightened by robins, who are out there singing out regardless!

being able to sit out on the front porch to read for a while — first time this year!

[Okay, since you asked: I am currently reading Imagine Wanting Only This by Kristen Radtke]

My 46^th acrylic is a cat. [Like the chihuahua earlier, it was done from a photo in an old calendar.] I don't love this one but I'm done with it — not my best, not my worst. I feel like any further fussing with it will just make it tighter, and I also feel like tighter wouldn't necessarily make this one better. The looseness of suggesting the floral print on the duvet was my fave part to do, as it happens. Onward.

a punk robin** singing exuberantly in the tree in my front yard

** the top of its head is all like little tiny spikes

Slowly — far too slowly — I have learned that it’s okay to like something, or want something [or not like, or not want] even if I can’t explain why.

My 44^th acrylic is a dog. [I feel like I need to tell people.] Having done a few animals now, I realize I have gradually felt my way toward a go-to palette for them: parchment, unbleached titanium, yellow ochre, burnt sienna, transparent burnt umber, and Payne's gray. Most of the critters I've tackled can be done with just those few, and little need to add a dot of any other colour. [I did put a dot of alizarin crimson inside the ears here...]

the sun

Today is the first break of bright light and blue sky we've had outside in a few weeks and it's so welcome. Thankful not only for the appearance of a lovely day, but also that whole business about how the sun makes life as we know it possible, etc.