. . . abhorred a vacuum

I spent a lot of time yesterday deconstructing an old painting. Something I thought I could accomplish in five minutes turned out to be more difficult that I had anticipated and I'm not done yet. I knew I was on the right track, though, when I liked the deconstructed bits better than the original painting. After scraping, sanding, peeling, heating, etc., I still couldn't detach some stuff I had applied . . . so I decided last night to scrap that big project and keep doing the smaller paintings. I will start fresh today.



The rest of the time I spent outside, weeding the garden and evaluating it for deconstruction and reconstruction. I love the garden at this time of year. . . no major bug issues (although I think I have three spider bits on my leg that itch like poison ivy), not too hot, and everything looks neat, tidy and well-behaved. I know that later this summer the garden will look like an aging madame, blowsy and overblown and trying too hard, hiding its better aspects under unnecessary plumage. But for now, there are conspicuous bare spots begging me to stick in a rose bush or a new and unusual plant. Like nature, I abhor a vacuum. In my garden and in my paintings. I have trouble grasping the concepts of negative space and white areas in my art and in my garden.


The picture above is from my last photo outing. I forgot that we went into a very old cemetery with the most amazing vaults (is that what you call them?) This picture is part of an arched entryway to one of these vaults.