It’s a month since I last posted something and … I’m losing it. When asked (not often), I say I’m doing fine. And I mean it. I’m not severely depressed or suicidal. I’m home with my husband and neither of us is sick. We argue about the small stuff, but agree on all the big stuff: how ridiculous Trump is but how hillarious Sara Cooper on Twitter is, what program to watch on Netflix, what to eat for dinner. After checking our phones, we even agree on what day of the week it is.
And there is some really wonderful news: at our advanced age we have become grandparents. Our son and his wife have just had a beautiful baby boy. We couldn’t be happier, unless we were actually there to hug him/them.
My painting is coming along. I’ve painted a couple which I like:
I’ve gessoed over three canvases which I didn’t like (from earlier, not painted since Covid19).
And I’ve started another African Skies sunset, similar to Hwange Sunset, which I think I’m gonna like.
But the excitement isn’t there. I used to rush to the League, eager to start on the next painting. Now, I spend as much time avoiding painting as I do actually putting paint on canvas. I still spend time thinking and planning what I’m going to do next, but the tingle, the oomph, just isn’t there.
And it doesn’t look like it’s going to change anytime soon. All this talk about everything opening up (and I really can’t wait to get back to the League) is music to my ears, but I’d have to figure out how to get there. It’s way too far to walk and I’m not getting on the NYC subway for the foreseeable future. And assuming I could get there, masks and gloves would not be a problem. But safely social distancing in otherwise crowded studios is hard to imagine.
My husband says, “If this is retirement, it’s not so bad.” And it’s not. It’s just not great either.