Why? This weekend I noticed a free Sunday and leapt into the gap to do that mural Lily asked me to do in the kids section of the Oxfam Bookshop. Reckon I must have spent about thirteen hours persuading a wall it really wanted to be a riverside this weekend, over ten of them on Sunday. I'm achey and knackered -- physically, muralling's up there with ditch digging*, on top of which there's the intense concentration ... and is it finished? Is it arse. It's at an attractive stopping point, though, and the immediate feedback (Lily's not seen it yet, but there were other volunteers in today) was good. Well, I think "where's the hole the woodpecker has made?" is a good response, anyway. Doing a job in a bookshop is kind of neat; all the reference material you could wish for at your fingertips. I've also got sore eyes, that'll be the fumes from the cheap tubes of white and black I suppose. The other paints (some posh stuff I picked up on sale from the local art shop) smelt pleasantly appropriate -- chocolatey browns, leafy greens, lemony yellows. I'm sure paint never used to be scented, but it served as a reminder not to flatten the brushes in my mouth, so it was probably a good idea. The rest'll have to be filled in in odd hours, I don't see another free weekend for a while. I'll call it finished when the pain runs out ... paint. I meant paint.
And now I'm onto getting the listings smooth at work. Edit, edit, edit ... "arts based activities that could provide you with the opportunity to learn more about yourself and also develop practicle arts skills" ... what the heck is a practicle? Like an icicle with extra functionality?
Bet I'd be much fitter if I painted murals for a living.
* Although the muscles you do in are different. I have little finger strain today from bracing the tin plate I use as a palette, for example. Nice to find out what's it's for, I suppose ...
Here's a thing; you can now read Titus Andronicus in all its original gory glory, and did they really find where dreams come from?