I fought my mind today, a few times. I started panting a purple flower I had taken a photo of last week on a hike. I applied the paint really thick and it almost appeared like acrylic, instead of watercolor. The heaviness of it irked me. I happily drenched my paint brush with water, applied it to the flower, and washed it away. A faint purple wash remained on the page. I moved onto organic lines and brush strokes, different thicknesses, mixing colors, allowing shapes to meet, and keeping shapes isolated. At one point I was really enjoying how it turned out and then I felt the overwhelming desire to rip it out of my sketchbook, so out it went. I couldn't capture what my mind was craving.
I sat back, looked at the page on my bed and felt disappointed. I decided it was about the process, watching the paint leave my brush, waiting to see how vastly different the paint dried on my page versus when it was applied, fighting my mind that just wanted to see all the white of the page swallowed up by harmonious brush strokes. Accepting today was not the day I would experience that harmony.
…maybe next time.