This past year has been a year of exploration for me. I dove into the world of illustration and watercolour, attempting to develop my skills and style. I've loved so much of it and have found a deep passion for watercolour painting. But there's something about it that sometimes feels more thought out- it takes so much effort and planning to execute a piece. Sometimes that planning excites me. The thought of what could be thrills me. And then there are times where I have felt this twinge, a stirring in my soul. This stirring is for something that once consumed my thoughts. Last year I left a love behind to learn about a new love, but the expressionistic acrylic paintings that I once spent time creating will always be the first love that I hold dear. It comes so natural for me...the act of painting becomes an expression of a feeling, rather than a thought.
Yesterday, I felt a sudden urge to return to that love. I pulled out my paints from the depths of the closet (I could probably use new ones by now) and found an unfinished painting to mask over. Taking out my old brushes felt like being reunited with a familiar friend. Old habits and rituals came flooding back- water jar being filled, the choosing of colours to squeeze out of their tubes, dabbing a newly moistened brush on a designated rag. And I began to paint to the sound of the music in my ears, to the feeling of the sun shining through the window, to the emotions of the day. It felt so very right. Yes, this paint, this style, is a part of me.
