Paintbrush in hand I stood in front of the small blank canvas hanging on the wall. It looked like it was waiting there for me.
I bent down to the tray of paint sitting on the white bench and dipped my brush into one of the four colours I had selected. Black, I thought, I'll start with black. My brush was twirled in the thick paint until I was satisfied and then I lifted it out with a perfectly big gob of paint dangling from the end. I took a step back. I raised my arm until the paintbrush was level with my head. I flicked my arm and watched the paint fly through the air and hit the canvas. Splat.
I did it again. And again. I dipped my brush in and out of the paints until they started to blend and create new colours I could fling against the bright canvas now hanging in front of me. Black. Pink. White. Blue. Lines and dots of colour mingling together in a random fashion.
The large rectangular canvas on the floor was there for all of us to work on. Using brushes in both hands, syringes full of watered down paint and small balloons we popped in our hands we stood above it and created. Layers upon layers of paint were laid down. All the colours you could imagine. I couldn't walk away.
The hard part of abstract expressionism is knowing when you are done said Emaly. I didn't want to ever be done. Despite the spontaneous nature of the painting, I longed to order it. All I could think when I looked at it was It needs more blue over there to balance off the the pink. And that corner needs something more. Maybe some orange. And some larger blobs of paint at the bottom would be good. And. And...
I could have stood there all night. Adding more paint. Making small changes. Adding and making and changing. Until the abstractness of it all had been rendered orderly in my mind.
Thanks to Emaly for hosting myself and some other Ottawa bloggers for a night of splatter painting. I think I need to do that again. Maybe every day. But not at my house. It's a little messy.