I can appreciate the calming sensations of a watercolour, but slathered fat waves of oil and acrylic are my drugs of choice
If you really want to experience the glory of paint, the thick swell it can cause in the heart, I’d recommend seeing a Frank Auerbach in the flesh. Failing that, acquiring one of his books. I consume art as some sweep the shelves of pharmacies for multivitamins. Throw it down my throat like a shot. While I can appreciate the intricacies of a charcoal sketch and the calming sensations of a watercolour, it is the slathered fat waves of oil and acrylic that are my drugs of choice.
I doodled constantly as a child and a teenager, almost compulsively. Every available surface was covered: the margins of newspapers, the backs of cereal packets, school books, even rulers. Every breath I took, out popped a ballpoint portrait of a guy with floppy hair, a woman with architectural cheekbones or an imagined plant with invented shapes for leaves. I no longer doodle because my hands have been commandeered by keyboards and trackpads.
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