when painting, it goes something like this:
1. start making painting/s. feels great to be doing the thing that makes you tick. it feels therapeutic, productive and immersive
2. painting gets boring. you carry on painting so you can get to a more exciting bit. this is the 9-5 manual labour stage
3. fuck why can't I sleep? it's because all you can see is my hands painting the same image over and over and over and over and over and, now it's morning and you feel like shit
4. I hate these stupid paintings. I'm going to take it completely personally and let it affect my self esteem and consider suicide. why am I an artist when I have a family to support? it's a stupid fucker of a career and i have no pension waiting for me. I can't stand to look at these bastard paintings as they remind me of my useless fucked up existence. I'm so stressed about money and how I will carry on winging it when I'm like, 40. I get angry at people not understanding art. did I remember to turn the heater off? did I leave the oven on? did I lock the door? etc
5. I look at the paintings like a spreadsheet of bullshit accounts. without looking, there is no solving the problem which by the way, your entire sense of self is holding onto with a tiny wee thread threatening to break if you don't subdue these rebellious cunts sitting on your minky studio wall. your eyes hurt from looking
6. you have a deadline remember. the paint needs to be dry. bear that in mind. you're meant to be a grown up professional
7. fuck it. get rid of lots of the bits you painted earlier which took heaps of time and effort. move stuff. draw the painting in various new ways. forget about deadlines completely
8. aaaahhh at last, it starts to feel like your art. it makes sense. it's like being granted a long sleep after much unrest. it's like drinking cold robinson's diluting juice when you're really thirsty and you remember how good diluting juice actually is. it's like leaving Facebook and realising that life goes bloody on. its like having that mini heart attack when you drop your iphone on a hard floor and the shakey 'holy shit!' relief when you find it didn't smash and functions just fine. the corner has turned and it's now the home stretch. you're an artist and this is your job
by this point, you don't give a shit what people will think of the outcome. however, you wouldn't dream of anyone seeing it before you were happy with it. you don't care if it stays with you, or leaves to the world. no one will give a shit and that gives you a sort of warm blankety sadistic comfort. your face gives birth to between 3 and 8 new wrinkles as you glance back at your 'masterpiece' like a mother to a child making their first champagne glass tower which you're only agreeing to because you have a family business in party planning and you figure 'the only way they'll learn is to just give it a go'
9. you hang the show. sell fuck all. get some ambiguous comments from a small audience
10. store the paintings somewhere in your overcrowded studio. the process is complete!