Kevin walked in to discover me decoupaging torn pages to the 24 x 36 canvas I had secured for the next incarnation of this painting. (The largest size available without a much longer drive, and after and hour and some change with the glue, I’m not sorry…)
“You’re not wearing pants,” he said, which was true. Actually, I was wearing a tanktop and a black lace thong, which sounds hot, except that I was hunched over a canvas in a position where any loose skin kind of hangs and glops, and in which nobody looks good, no matter how they’re built.
“Look,” I growled, “it’s just easier this way…” When you’re slinging that much liquid glue around, it gets everywhere, and skin sheds glue much easier than fabric.
The victims of my decoupage are an elderly history of 1857 England and a bargain rack horror novel so dreadful, so appallingly written, so weakly plotted and gratuitously gory, that I wanted to give it a chance to make some of itself by being part of a painting. It may not come out as a good painting, but it cannot possibly be worse than the novel in question, which made the screenplay of Dagon look like serious literature.
After a few minutes, I will apply clear gesso, and see if I can’t get a ground suitable to paint on.
Much later, there may be pants.