I hate it when a painting sits there, waiting for me to find the time to finish it. I feel guilty, and when I can open the color box and slap those last brushstrokes, satisfaction feels me up. Truth is, when you leave a painting unfinished for a long time you risk finding mistakes, areas of the painting you’d like to redo. Fortunately this was not the case. Or it is just my lazy self.
Hope is a thin being started off from an Ophelia-influenced couple of sketches somewhere in June. Ophelia is not the happiest idea to deal with and it took me some time to decide whether I wanted her to drown herself or find something to hold on to. There were dead branches around her that had to mirror her hair and the butterfly was far more little than it is now.
She was going to “offer herself to the water”, if you saw The Hours you might recognize Virginia Wolf. She’s there.
The painting then decided she wasn’t going to give up so easily and would fight to survive. I followed her and listened. Even if it took me 5 months to finish it, the process was quite smooth. I enjoyed painting her lips but struggled with the hand, and now I have it on my list to practice, practice, practice, and practice more even if my paintings are never that realistic.
I found out I don’t know how to draw convincing butterflies either but I have another list for these things. And, yes that is a butterfly. Not a flower: that is a wing not a bunch of petals. Oh and the red blotch in the bottom left corner is my signature, sometimes I do remember to sign my paintings. This time I also wrote the title on the back along with the date of beginning (that’s why I know I started it back in June).
And now a close up of the face. She’s relaxed and dreamy, a friend of mine already asked for a painting with the same expressione, let’s hope I will be able to replicate it!
And now, since I am an educated young lady:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
— Emily Dickinson —