I’ve been painting for hours. I’m done for the day (likely, anyway). Although I dislike pretty much everything I did, I understand that the ‘doing’ was important. I shouldn’t expect to like everything I paint, and I shouldn’t expect it all to work out. I’d love for it to be pleasing every time, but it’s fine to make crap. Even, lots of it.

I am oddly OK with this.

And now it’s time to make supper.