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.

Today is my birthday, and I am grateful to still be here — and still well enough to do the things I love.

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...]

My 41^st acrylic painting is... well I was going to say my first acrylic abstract, but it's actually my first successful one. [I tried once before, very early on, but was so dissatisfied with it that I painted over it... with something that was only marginally better, frankly.] At least, to me this one is a success: it turned out pretty much how I had in mind, from a visual idea that came to me back in the spring. But it took some reading about Abstract Expressionism over the past few days to give me the impetus to give this one a shot.

It's also my first painting to be given a formal title. I believe that a title can potentially contribute a lot to an abstract. And it's the first time I managed to get a bit of impasto work into one of my paintings — not sure how well that shows here, but IRL you can see it.

a surprising insight

Was talking with a friend today, and I expressed a feminist opinion which isn't often heard from men. And they said, “Well, you're an exception... and your exceptions are part of what I like about you.”

I then said that, rather than be called an exception [because that has connotations of being exceptional, which I ain't], I preferred to think of myself as an outlier, because that sounds more like “odd”. But then I said, “I'm okay with my oddness, though — if I could change and be more normal, I don't think I would.”

And, in retrospect, this took me somewhat aback. After a lifetime of being intensely self-critical, I suddenly found myself speaking up for myself: admitting to myself as well as my friend that I am basically content with how I turned out. There are a few things I wish I was better at, but overall there isn't really much about myself I would change.

It's almost like these feelings caught me by surprise, I have no idea where they came from... but I like them, and I need to remember this place of self-acceptance that I found myself in today.

had an odd experience recently, related to the fact that I have struggled with my self-talk all my life:

My art studio has always been my kitchen table. [In recent years, this is largely because our table is very big and the light in the kitchen is excellent.] But my art supplies were stored in a back corner room. Just this week, I was urged to move my art supplies to some newly vacated shelf space in the kitchen, so they're handy and can inspire me while I sit and work.

And I admit, they are a sight to behold now: a shelf of exciting colours, boxes of watercolours and gouaches and acrylics and pastels, packs of canvases, pads of good paper. And once I got them settled into place and stood back to savour them, an inner voice suddenly said: All that stuff is wasted on me.

But immediately an inner voice said: Why the eff would I think something like that?! 

The significant part is that I intercepted and smacked down the negative self-talk at once, instead of letting myself marinate in it for who knows how long. I mean, it's still not great that I thought it in the first place, but at least I've grown a bit better at addressing it.

I had one of those today.

For the last couple of weeks, I've found myself listening to a lot of rock'n'roll recordings from England in the fifties and early sixties... back when rock was in its infancy, and people were still feeling their way through how to do this thing. And I realize that some of these singers and musicians and songwriters are comparatively crude. But I still enjoy listening to this sutff.

And it occurred to me that, just because there is Better Music® out there that I could be listening to, it doesn't mean I'm wasting my time listening to this instead. There are plenty of reasons to enjoy art besides how accomplished it is. Ultimately those reasons are all subjective, and so what? Heck, have I already forgotten the lessons of seventies punk? That was a deliberate reclamation of the idea that art doesn't need to be The Best® in order to enjoy making it, or to enjoy what someone else has made.

Conversely, something that is demonstrably Well Made® is not necessarily enjoyable, either. Like I said, it's all subjective. It doesn't even really matter if we can identify for ourselves what it is that we like about art, just as long as we like it. People like what they like. And we need to let them like what they like.

Then I got thinking about my own work, and how quick I am to see its shortcomings, and how many better artists and writers there are out there.

And so what? People can still like what I make anyway. Some of them actually do, and I can't say they're wrong to. I could be a crude fifties English rocker for someone out there — not The Best®, but someone still finds something in it to like, for whatever reason.

I keep losing sight of this, and I need to not lose sight of it.

Melatonin.

My doctor recently recommended this [and magnesium] for the trouble I've had with sleeping during this past year-plus, so I've been trying it. I've now woken up from my third solid night's sleep in a row — the first time that has happened this year.

This morning, I not only feel refreshed, I feel interested in doing something. And this makes me realize that, somewhere along the line, not just fatigue but apathy had become my new normal, without me noticing. I'm hoping this is all a portent of better things to come.