There's a part of me that's still a little nervous about using Craigslist, but I had the companionship of the roommate with me when I drove out to Cleveland Heights last night to pick up a rack of about 70 Prismacolor markers and over 30 cans of spray paint.
I know this combined with my love of graffiti sounds like a recipe for creative vandalism but I promise it will stay legit.
I've started buying old paintings at thrift stores because it's cheaper than buying new canvases from Pat Catan's and I don't have the power tools to make my own. I used to build them back in my art student days, wondering how the art department trusted 19-year-old girls with table saws and nail guns. The paintings sometimes have big funky old frames and they're much more hangable than the recycled illustration board I've been messing around with.
The back room at the apartment has become my retreat in the dark days of winter. Jars and old canisters full of brushes, chipped dishes for mixing paint, a drawer full of ephemera accumulated since I was in high school, the boombox and books of patterns and inspirations from the library, those tall red votive candles in the glass jars with the Virgin of Guadalupe on them that I like for no reason that makes sense.
I've been thinking about a lot of things and it's easier sometimes for me to write and paint on the same surface, lines and colors saying what I can't express, creating beauty out of the chaos and frustration with the world as it is.