Lately, having not caught sight of my studio for the past eight weeks, that quote has been nagging at my thoughts. First, a "minor" ceiling leak kept me away during two weeks of repair, as did end of school year activities with my daughter and then we were off on an extended vacation.
Of course, getting away with family is always a treat, and as we were in Paris and Italy, inspiration was plentiful. Visited longtime friends: Chardin, Leonardo and the Dutch masters at the Louvre, marveled again at their work and that of contemporary artists whom I met throughout our travels. I even got to see Monet's huge circular murals and the Paul Guillaume art collections at the Museé de L'Orangerie (long on my "to do" list.) Still, eight weeks without putting brush to canvas, how do I get to call myself an artist with that lapse of hands-on time?
Be silent my internal critic... I'm headed back to the studio today and I think my travels and the time off has actually done me some good. Not only am I itching to tackle the set up I had carefully composed before going away, but I feel energized and refreshed with all sorts of new ideas and projects taking form.
'Painted Peonies" (Oil on Linen 12 x 16), the last painting I finished prior to the studio deluge, was a pleasant distraction. The flowers seemed to flourish along with the steady but slow ceiling drip.