I've been doing nothing but painting for the last three days. I think I've only left my apartment twice. One of those times was just to get my watercolors out of my car. I guess this is the life of an illustrator.
I still have five oil paintings to finish... but it's actually kind of fun. I get to lounge around in pajamas all day while painting to the music I love. I usually smell of turpenoid, liquin and soap and my finger nails are perpetually dirty for the next month, but I think it's a small price to pay. I think I'd like doing this for the rest of my life. Maybe just not in Provo.
Here's proof of the wreckage I cause in my apartment. Mom would not be very happy about me painting on the carpet...
Oh! And this is just for my own enjoyment, but I just read this thing in Wikipedia (legit, right? Yeah, yeah, I know) about how some reporter from the 70's concluded that Thomas Pynchon (overly reclusive author of The Crying of Lot 49) was in fact J.D. Salinger (overly reclusive author of The Catcher in The Rye). He published the article and years later Pynchon gave him this simple reply: "Not bad. Keep trying."
Does this not send your mind for a loop? I'm seriously fascinated with these guys, even if Wikipedia is lying to me (it usually is). Maybe I should join the club and become overly reclusive. I'm pretty good at it already.