When you stop and think about it, the reason the birdseed all vanishes in a remarkably short period of time, forcing me to refill the feeder CONSTANTLY, is almost certainly the squirrels. The odds that it’s a weird little guy in a vaguely kachina-esque birdsuit are slim to none.
Still, you never know.
I don’t like this painting. It’s the first one I ever did using oils, and thus I am very glad to have done it, but I don’t think it works for a coupla reasons—the birds, (slate-sided juncoes) while nifty, are too small and get lost, and the figure for some reason just doesn’t do it for me. I was going for a Michael Parkes-esque juxtaposition of shallow stone ledges and airy space, and…err…well, it didn’t work. The gradient on the sky is pretty choppy, but on the other hand, it’s the first such I’ve ever done with oils, so I don’t mind that so much—the next one will be better. But overall, it just fails for me.
In the normal course of human events, I would have scrapped this one halfway through (and nearly did) but my husband insisted I finish it, because he liked it. (I quite like the IDEA, mind you, of something sneaking in and stealing my birdseed, but I failed in the execution.) My tendency, on those occasions that I do a painting that I don’t like, is to chunk it in the corner and ignore it until I have a convention that I’m desperate to round out or something, but as a friend mercilessly pointed out, it’s unlikely anyone will hate it with the same intensity that I do, and only one person has to like it to buy the thing. And somebody else once said that they quite liked seeing my failures because it gave them hope for their own art. So hey, what the hell. But it’s in scraps, because of that. - Ursula Vernon