Omnia's Journal

Starting a new canvas today. Mural-sized, it fills the space of the longest wall in my studio. I need the step ladder to work on the uppermost sector.

My mind is as blank as the canvas is. Not the blankness of a Zen 'beginner's mind,' which might have served me well creatively, but rather the blankness of 'a white void staring back at me, exposing my obvious artistic deficiencies and my intrinsic lack of value as a human being.'

This morning I am a petrified forest. Perhaps I will paint that. Trees with iron trunks. Trees with zig-zag lightning branches. Trees on the verge of weeping tears of amber sap. Trees reaching up to stroke the azure skin of the sky.

The first mark is the most painful to make. The first mark is a wound, through which the rest of the painting is born. The first mark is anxiety-stricken. The first mark is full of love.

I hope this canvas won't be too callous to let me coat it with my soul.

Ahhhh. Sweet freedom. Making mistakes. Making mistakes into miracles. Making miracles into masterpieces.

5.00 am. My body aches. I work on in the darkness. It will be light outide soon. In my making, I am seeking the unnameable. Here, in the solitude and silence, I sense the presence of God.

I add flames to the trees. With my palette knife, thick swathes of impasto red and yellow and orange pigments. The flames leap and dance and crackle. They tell no tales for children's ears, but if you incline your lobe to the weave of the cloth, you might hear them spill their secrets.