A tragic short story in ‘The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Woman’:
I came home last night from a late theatre rehearsal to find my 2 newest, wet, oil paintings flat on the floor, face up, without much resemblance to what had been painted on them. Turns out my Rumba, while cleaning the floor had knocked them perfectly to the ground face up, and run them over REPEATEDLY, trying to ‘clean’ them. And they were sufficiently clean. Right down to their first layer. These paintings were the ONE task that I was actually on schedule for and their destruction had set me back DAYS of work. ‘Did you cry?’ you ask? Yup. Right there on the floor.
Cussing out the vacuum cleaner WAS the reaction that nearly jumped out of me and even though it seemed like the most natural reaction at the moment, would it really bring back the art? Would my little Rumba roll on over and lay each brush stroke back where I had carefully placed it? In that exact spot containing the correct value to bring about the form for that particular shape?! That’s a definite NO, ghost rider.
So, there really was only one option. I reminded myself, ‘Girl! You are descended from warriors! Clean this oil paint tracked floor, curse your Rumba if you must, and get on with it!’
Happy to say, feeling sorry for myself DID happen, but didn’t last too long. 😉