When I was in school I had an assignment to paint any place from memory. I painted the bedroom I had when I was little. During critiques the instructor commented on a random red paint stroke at the edge of the bed. My feeble explanation was that I just felt like it. She said it was awesome, because that's what painting was all about. I still think of that red brush stroke and this painting, Flowered Collar, also reminds me of that red brush stroke.
I started this painting probably about 16 years ago. It's gone through a couple of phases. I've hauled it with me through three different moves and finally finished it yesterday. After all this time I can finally say it's done.
I had to touch up a section of the photo where I couldn't get rid of the glare. It's a bad touch up job. I have some beginners version of some photo software. I don't miss Photoshop very often, but there are times when it really would come in handy.
I guess sometimes you're never happy or satisfied with your work. I had a wrestling match with this, and I have my theories as to why - some probably more conscious than others. Anyway I got a diary of my day, and I went to bed feeling like crap. :) ... but it doesn't end here. I'm also working on a painting. yey. I need to do just a face. What made me think I could be so grandiose?