The Smell of Paint Escapes Me

I remember. Don't I?

It's really not so long ago that my days turned into night and then back again to dawn. The memory of dragging my tired but wired body to the coffee pot for one more shot of inspiration floods in. Yes, this I cannot forget. Bleed the red into yellow and then back again. Wait, one more dab of azure blue. The finishing touches, it's like icing on the cake. Stand back, yes, I think it is done. Here, let me smell the paint one more time. Ah, my shirt, my hands, my face are blotched with paint. Have I showered today? Yesterday? Is this the same bandanna from two days ago? Who cares, I'm going for a walk on the beach.

Those were the days.

Things are different now. The sound of my paint brush gliding across Bristol board has been replaced my the tapping of my keyboard. Undo, next, edit, file, image, filter, new layer and then flatten. It's done. Save, export, upload and then send. Just what the art buyer ordered, print ready art.

An email from a new illustrator friend reminded me of the days when the smell of paint was a part of my regiment. A day when canvas, brushes, rapidiographs and erasers filled my backpack. A 17" x 11" laptop complete with an external hard drive fills the spaces in my bag now.

I have mixed emotions about digital technology. I guess I like the fact that I can sit in any coffee shop anywhere and paint without the mess. Or traveling through the great friendly skies and opening my pavillion dv5 after the "buckle your seat belt" light goes off. I can deal with giving up the ink clogged rapidiographs, and the expense of all the different shades and tints. Yet somehow what I miss the most is the smell of paint. Here, let me log onto the HP website. Do they have scented laptops? Just a thought.