The surge of energy that pushed me over the creative hump must play itself out before I can stop walking.
I had been stuck. This morning I remembered a writer that had encouraged other writers to just keep writing every single day--even when you don't feel like it. I thought: And that applies to art. I'll go down to the studio and just keep painting even thought I don't know where I'm going with this.
I added more color. By mid-afternoon it occurs to me that I'm tying myself down too much to the sketch. Surely I had studied and absorbed the scene enough so that I could just paint how it felt. I left to let the last wash dry.
When I returned in the late afternoon I had agreed with myself to just let the feelings flow onto the paper. I painted, washed away, painted again and then--to my surprise-- I began scratching into the surface to retrieve some whites. Hard. I felt as if a midwife was urging me, "Push, push, now, now!" Then, it felt birthed. Stop, I told myself, stop. Go for a walk--although it is late. When you return you'll know what you think of it.
Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, how dare you conclude the story in such agony!