The difference between painting and writing
OK, OK, don't hit me, but I realized tonight while getting my paintings together to hang tomorrow (yes, I've been bad and haven't told anyone yet, I have a show up in November at Capers, I promise I was going to tell, I was) that there are real differences between painting and writing.
I see![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
scarlettina smacking her forehead at me now. "Oy, so she just figured this out? The girl's a slow learner!"
But seriously. I love writing, I do. It's fun, but somehow I never want to bite my stories. Going through my paintings and washing and tidying them and polishing up the wax on the encaustics and smelling the honey of the beeswax and admiring the lovely accidental ways this color rolled over into that color making just this sort of contrast and getting them to glow like colored glass, I just want to bite them.
Or maybe just lick them a little. Just a little. I won't tell anyone. It's beeswax, after all.
Writing just doesn't have that kind of sensuality.
I see
scarlettina smacking her forehead at me now. "Oy, so she just figured this out? The girl's a slow learner!" But seriously. I love writing, I do. It's fun, but somehow I never want to bite my stories. Going through my paintings and washing and tidying them and polishing up the wax on the encaustics and smelling the honey of the beeswax and admiring the lovely accidental ways this color rolled over into that color making just this sort of contrast and getting them to glow like colored glass, I just want to bite them.
Or maybe just lick them a little. Just a little. I won't tell anyone. It's beeswax, after all.
Writing just doesn't have that kind of sensuality.
