Growling at the Painting

I've been painting.

It hasn't been easy. In fact, it's been hard. Hard to concentrate, hard to see, hard to get the paint to move where I want it.

Thinking back on the moment that I first put the brush to canvas I knew that this would be a struggle. It's like the picture is fighting back, like it doesn't want to be born. And with each show of resistance I push all the harder.

Poor Max is confused by the whole affair. I've taken to "talking" to the paint and the canvas while I'm working and Max thinks I'm talking to him. But, because I'm not using words that he's familiar with like "walk," "treat" or "attack" he's not sure how to respond. So, he ends up sitting to my right in his side-saddle manner, his ever watchful nose pointed in the air and his tail ready to wag if I should say his name, look in his direction or use one of those key words mentioned above. I'm sure that the gnashing of my teeth, my growling at the paint and my fencing-like jabs at the canvas with brush and palette knife wreak havoc with the perceptions of his beagle brain.

I'm not sure what the problem actually is and, if Max knows (he's been the only one that has witnessed me working on this particular project, the only one besides me who's seen how it's working out) he's keeping it a secret.

I wonder whether or not the end product will contain any telling information about the struggle it's been to give birth to this thing. Will it seem forced or strained? Will there be scars from our slashing at one another? Bruises from our mutual pummeling?

Only time will tell.