Every now and again, a painting grabs me by the throat and does not put me down until it is painted. Sometimes the results are awesome. Sometimes…well, sometimes I’m the only one who thinks they’re awesome. Such is life. The inspiration seems to arrive independant of the quality.

I have attempted to locate a word for the feeling when the painting grabs me–it’s not the same as getting in the groove, which is something else. I am frequently in the groove, but it does not feel like this, and there is less maniacal laughter when I am in the groove, and I do not get that feeling of brief artistic invincibility where every stroke lands in exactly the right place and the inside of my skin itches and I want to get up and run around except that I have to keep painting. Insomuch as I have religious experiences these days, that’s the closest.* It doesn’t happen often.

About the only word I like is "awen" after the Welsh word for blinding inspiration, although I feel sort of flaky and froofy and self-consciously-paganny  when I do that, and also the modern we-are-very-serious-druids use that one for other stuff, and those people tend to be either laughable or bloody goddamn terrifying, apparently without any middle ground.

Anyway, all that said, this took about six hours, interrupted by the bathroom and a brief food run.

One Odd Ocelot

*I mean, I have the quiet personal spiritual moments of gardening and whatnot that most of us probably have, but this is the 180-proof stuff.

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