Here I am, working on the beginning of the end, though still four short of that sum when all said and undone.
Had wanted to be chronological about it, do each piece in sequence, tying the whole grand finale up in a neat bow.
Then I hit a wall on the one before and apropos with all these blood moons, needed the salvation of retribution, as opposed to merely feeling like a madman chipping at a mountain with a toothpick.
What a caper this art thing is, like inclement weather eh?
It’s at such times that I realize the paintings exist entirely on another plain to their earlier sketched counterparts, and looking backward is often like retracing a forgotten trail obscured by brush or at least a sable.
I realize I’m talking riddles, but the conversations I have in my head seldom make sense.
I suppose artists are just cryptologist’s of their past.