Something about this painting was different. Something would not let me give up on it. The image was not lost, it was just beyond my reach. Just far enough to taunt me, but not near enough for me to grasp. The painting remained untouched in my studio for a while well, more like several years. Brought it home, propped it up against one wall, then another, upstairs, downstairs. Nothing. I finished several others in the interim and this one stayed behind, sadly still unfinished.
About a month ago, I don't know how or why, I happen to walk by it and in an instant, I knew exactly what was wrong and what I needed to do. I hadn't lost the image, it is much the same. I had lost my colors. The colors were silent. When in school, we were always warned not to "fall in love with our own paintings." This is of course so we could all grow up to be artists and artists, should be objective and open to "constructive criticism." Those were lovely days. I wouldn't say I'm "in love" with this painting though, and I always welcomed other artists' critiques of my work. I would say however, that I'm in awe of how much I've learned from this one small painting. Find your colors, those that speak to your heart, that move your spirit, and touch your soul and you will find yourself in the process ...and you will paint!