I hate painting.
Painting is a compulsive act. It is not a choice. It is thrust upon me. I spend hours pacing the studio, stalling, being ever drawn to the easel. Pulled there by a gravity of sorts. Part of me denies it. Part of me rails against it. Part of me resents the loss of control, the loss of self, but when I pick up my brush and start, another part of me rejoices. That part sings complete at last, here is the reason, here is the fulfillment and until my arms and mind fail, I will paint.
I love painting