I want to paint. I want to learn to use oil paint.
I often find myself shifting identities through the seasons- crocheting, making jewelry, and now, painting. Each phase feels like a new version of myself.
Now is the season to paint, and I’m completed immersed in it. All I want to do is paint. After work, in the little spare time I have, my mind drifts to painting. Even during the day, I find myself thinking about it constantly.
Lately, instead of painting anonymous women’s faces, I’ve been sketching and painting people I know. Last night, I came across a photo of my youngest son. I painted him. I want to do it again because, in the photo, his face appeared fuller than how I see him now. Since I’ve already drawn it on canvas, I want to layer it with oil. My hope is that the painting will feel so universal and tender, it could be mistaken for anyone’s child.
The wide, direct gaze of my son invites the viewer into his world – innocent, curious, and a little bit wise. The brushstrokes in his shirt are soft and almost ethereal, suggesting tenderness or perhaps a memory still forming. His expression feels alert yet gentle, with that slight pink smile holding a quiet resilience. The blue smudges on his cheeks evoke the spontaneity of childhood – whether they’re playful marks or artistic symbolism, they add emotional texture.
I need a lot more practice.
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