Let the paint drip
It's just paint
“You really hate those floors, don’t you?” My wife commented on the uncovered floors covered with drips and dollops of wet paint.
I didn’t cover the floors because I was and still am committed to ripping those awful cracked tiles out and starting over.
I caught drips when they were on walls, but allowed the paint to splatter at my feet.
I stood on a dining room chair to reach the ceiling, and stepped on it with my bare feet. Now that chair is covered in feet prints.
When I look at the chair, I see my presence on it as I stretched to push paint into the corners of the room. I don’t want to erase myself in what I do—I want to be able to see where I was when I did something. I also just like being a total mess, and bathing in paint (see my previous post).
When painting a room, I’m always fighting against two things:
Paint drying. When paint dries too quickly, the drips can’t be wiped away, the bristles of the brush stiffen into a protest. The paint doesn’t roll smoothly onto the wall; instead, it globs up, half dried before it hits the wall.
Paint where it does not belong. A good painter is constantly fighting gravity. Paint wants to run like tears down a wall, drip drip drip until it hits the ground or dries. Even when drop cloths are spread gingerly over every surface, its common that a drip will push its way through the fabric and onto the floor. This is why you should always carry a wet washcloth with you, ready to wipe defects away.
The goal with house painting is to erase what’s underneath with a thick, even coat. When done well, paint creates a fresh start, and can hide a multitude of sins.
This time, I enjoyed watching the floor decorate with drips. I enjoyed the way my feet marked the old chair forever. There is a freedom in deciding to start over. These tiles suck, so let’s not protect them. This chair sucks, so lets ruin it. There is a freedom in allowing drips to form and letting them remain.
I think this is why I love drips in my paintings. You can guide them, but can’t control them. They move like water over a cliff face—always seeking the ground, but stopping when they dry up.
When I look at drips on a painting, I see the way I held the painting to encourage movement. I see my hands on the side of the canvas guiding watery paint into interesting shapes.
In my mudroom, I wiped all of the drips away.
After I’m done, and all the paint has dried, I return to where I started and look at what I’ve done with fresh eyes. There are usually some places where the paint is thin and could use another coat. There are usually a couple of drips that I missed. When I’m looking at a painting, I sense that something is wrong and experiment with different colors and shapes until it feels right.
I’m not sure what’s next, both in painting and in life, but I know that painting helps iron out the furrows in my brow. It forces presence. I have to pay attention to what is happening in this specific moment in this specific place. I have to look closely in order to truly see what is happening. When I’m done, I am filled with the pride of having finished something.
Thanks for reading. I imagine that all of you readers are sitting around my living room. I have my paint brush in hand, and I am sharing my thoughts about painting with you while you sip coffee or tea. It's comforting to know that you are out there, choosing to open this link.
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Until next time,
Adina
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