I had paint on my nose and frustration in my hair from several unsuccessful self-portrait attempts. But the brush in my hand was a whip of determination snaking around me. I was going to make something in the studio that day work.
I looked at The End, propped up on its side in the corner. It has been lolling about my studio for a while. Not quite finished. The couple were too pensive. The party in the far away house was too trendy with ridiculous haircuts and uneven walls. The foreground was damp.
I knew exactly what to do. I grabbed the burnt umber and a strip of masking tape. I mixed a domestic terracotta red that would look lovely in my kitchen, a yellow that smelled like wild oats and cooked earth.
All the loose ends of my self portraits frazzled hair, wonky eyes and piggy noses mounted a last invasion. Determination and sear pigheadedness was needed to get to The End.
