Blog Jam 9: When to quit and go get coffee

One morning I'd had quite enough of painting. But I was too far into it to think reasonably. From a generous palette I had smooshed an array of colors across the surface of a large canvas, cutting deeply, scraping away parts to the bones, so even its wooden ribs were showing through in lines of paint. It did feel like surgery: the longer I worked on it, the uglier it got. So when a friend called, I stared at the phone angrily. I wiped my hands on a rag and asked curtly: What’s up? She asked, “What’s going on?” I said, I'm trying to make this painting work, and it’s not working. I hate it. She has this bad habit of laughing at me when I’m mad. She said, “So, it’s not done yet. Right?” 

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