Even the colours I hate are magnificent in pastel form. The slightest contact yields a universe.
I want them all. I want trays and trays of rainbow coloured sticks so bright I can only look at them out of the corner of my eye, spread out on a table in an artist’s buffet.
I run the side of a Sennelier in garish orange and I think of creamsicles and my mouth waters. I let a streak of it kiss the side of green tree with a purple shadow and I feel absolutely decadent. My eyes dart back and forth trying to take it all in, trying to keep themselves in their sockets even though they long to dance across the surface of the page.
Such a soft medium. No hard edges. No yes or no, everything is perhaps in pastel. Everything melts into everything.
The tree is part of the sky is part of the water is part of the barn is part of the frame. Layered over and over, not to cover but to communicate with preceding layers. The history of the making of the painting available to anyone who cares to look.
Really look. Up close, you can see each swipe, each scumble, the tips of dusty fingers, the surface of the paper and maybe even the table it sat on. Maybe even the floor the table sat on. Maybe even the footfalls of the artist as they paced the room, energy bursting inside, longing for expression.