For some people it's freshly brewed coffee or bacon sizzling gently that delights their sense of smell first thing in the morning. For me, it's something very different, definitely not in the category of food or drink, and something that most normal human beings would find mildly offensive – paint fumes...
Deliciously fresh, every corner of the apartment permeating, 'work in progress' paint fumes.
You see, when my house smells like an episode of 'Extreme makeover: home edition' it means that I've been productive, that I've been inspired, that I've been painting up a storm.
It means that the blank canvases that often haunt my studio have (finally) been given some attention and that I am walking around with atleast three small (but won't come off with soap/dishwashing liquid/turpentine) splodges of various shades of enamel paint on my limbs. It means that I'm happy.
And, as the saying goes, 'happy wife, happy life'... My hubby was so relieved to come home last night and see me in all my paint-covered tracksuit glory, sitting cross-legged on my studio floor mixing up a concoction of marble dust, texturising gel and bright gold enamel.
"Good to see you painting again, my love," he said. "You've been a bit tense lately [tense = snappy the crocodile with PMS] and you're so much more relaxed [human/stable/the women I married] when you've been spending time in your studio [and letting me spend time watching replays of the rugby games I've already watched]. By the way, it's a stunning [not quite as blindingly neon/much better than the last one] piece."
Was good to hear that.
Every piece he really loves? It sells!
That's why he married an artist but hasn't got a single piece of art hung on the walls of our apartment.
Deliciously fresh, every corner of the apartment permeating, 'work in progress' paint fumes.
You see, when my house smells like an episode of 'Extreme makeover: home edition' it means that I've been productive, that I've been inspired, that I've been painting up a storm.
It means that the blank canvases that often haunt my studio have (finally) been given some attention and that I am walking around with atleast three small (but won't come off with soap/dishwashing liquid/turpentine) splodges of various shades of enamel paint on my limbs. It means that I'm happy.
And, as the saying goes, 'happy wife, happy life'... My hubby was so relieved to come home last night and see me in all my paint-covered tracksuit glory, sitting cross-legged on my studio floor mixing up a concoction of marble dust, texturising gel and bright gold enamel.
"Good to see you painting again, my love," he said. "You've been a bit tense lately [tense = snappy the crocodile with PMS] and you're so much more relaxed [human/stable/the women I married] when you've been spending time in your studio [and letting me spend time watching replays of the rugby games I've already watched]. By the way, it's a stunning [not quite as blindingly neon/much better than the last one] piece."
Was good to hear that.
Every piece he really loves? It sells!
That's why he married an artist but hasn't got a single piece of art hung on the walls of our apartment.
Comments