I hate it. I just can’t stand it. I wish I’d never cut it.
Yes, it’s colorful. It has spots of vibrancy and cool detail. But on a scale from white to black, almost the entire thing weighs in at middle grey.
I cut it so I could arrange what light and dark values there are in a certain way, in an attempt to enhance them, give them some coherence, but that’s a Big Fat Nón.
Even Matthew, who unfailingly, unflaggingly supports the textile fungus that’s been slowly creeping over the entire house.
Matthew, who will listen for ten minutes while I belabor the oh-so-dramatic ins and outs of an ebay auction for a 5$ piece of silk and how some chippy tried to steal it out from under me in the last six seconds, and share my glee when I showed HER.
Matthew, who understands that pots of slime on the back porch are fermenting for a reason and asks what that might be with actual enthusiasm. Who chokes up sometimes when I get really, really excited about something I’ve made, because he really, truly loves me to bits. Who looks at the failures and the mistakes and the mad-zombi-brainfails and still believes I’ll find something interesting to do with them next.
Matthew took one look at this poor thing, hesitated for just a second, and said, “I see what you mean.”
I’ve contemplated embellishments to alter the values, make the darks darker and the lights lighter and maybe bring the vague, mystical coherence I’m seeking.
I’ve contemplated overdyeing.
Nothing makes sense. You’d think with all those details and bright spots of color, it’d be interesting. But it’s just…what? It’s awful and ugly and boring. All at the same time. This picture actually does it far too much justice.
I’ve thrown it into the closet for it to contemplate its sins. In the meantime, I’m contemplating how to save its soul.