This shot's quite appropriate. The painting we can see on top is called Hair of the Dog, and although no-one has yet asked me why, I'll tell you, and the answer can be found in the very same picture.
In fact, in truth a lot of my pictures could be called Hair of the Dog these days, as most of them incorporate said canine attribute, thanks to the fluff-ball called Dasco seen here bottom left.
This is the end of the art fair I took part in at the Bastille last weekend, waiting to be emptied out and put in storage until the next time. The feeling is strange, a little like when you move out of someone's home you've lived with. Melancholic.
The danger was to slip into maudlin depression. Hence this revamped blog, where I can get it all off my chest and move on without bugging anyone too much I hope.
In an hour the boot will be empty, I'll be gazing at blank new canvases wondering about possibilities, and the dog with the tongue on his nose will be getting ready to contribute hairily to my next opus.
Ahh, possibilities; goodness knows there are plenty of those. And when I looked at my stand with almost 20 pictures I was surprised at what I had actually brought to reality over the years, although without any real consistency. Not until now, that is. Art is an adventure, a voyage and a discovery, perhaps more than any other human activity, and an incredibly testing one. Let me talk more on that in my next post.