CONFESSION OF A PAINTRESS's MIND

[an informal statement of a solid pigment in a liquid vehicle]

in the interval of a paintress and her muse

The obsession really is there when you can actually sense & truly like someone (his soul makes a sound to you) and put up with them no matter what & see who they really are WITHOUT being able to reach them, share nor communicate with them. HIM. I know there's often no answer to a question, but why?

You figured how great he is. You figured how many things you have in common. The hows & whys of his actions. Aware of his blessures. And yours. However something keeps you from having any kind of interaction with this person including friendship. How’s so? What a waste. Recycling affects in the creative zone - then a muse is born.

It's clear to me but barely for some that I only paint men when sex and romance option is out. Intimacy is only create within distance. Materialize the face of the Other with the medium of painting. Each artwork is not like "a rose add to the bouquet" but removing thorns. And/or rather fighting against love pattern, delusion and unfulfilled heart. The muse becomes a pretext to creation. His identity, his image render into something else. A fragment of affects conduit. Simply. A recognizable naufrage that leaves you dry and grounded. Keeps you on shore every time. Yet again call it what you want, obsession, fixation, passion, fascination, that thing impels towards arty work and every artist needs it. A course of action often misconstrued.

So snapping that I’m more obsessed by him more than his actual mother (and being called crazy) is really disturbing coming from a muse and bluntly quite unlikely coming from an artist himself. It spoiled my faith and ruined my comfort zone which is creativeness. HE STRIPED ME IN YELLOW. I gave him what I had the most precious : my artwork. Even agreed for modification [out of friendship] just to pleased him. The impression of being misgiving and used by your muse goes beyond sex and romance rejection. And seeing yourself being refused friendship is really extreme.

According to his mate, some of this blog are completely untrue and apparently went too far. I might be wrong but how could I know his truth when he refused to talk to me? Where did I go wrong?

Being a paintress does not differ from being a painter aside from people’s prejudices. As a woman I have the capacity to acknowledge my emotional response & desire.

As I already mentioned, I can sense love through them but not with them even if this last one really measured up to what I believed to be my ideal man. So I guess that makes me a romantic rebel.

Even within indifference & in that distant proximity moment, I felt a surge of tenderness towards him.