What was I thinking?

We had a "group critique" in painting this morning, and it was pretty sweet, (eg. no one told me my work was crap or anything!). And then I came to the realisation that what I was painting was, in fact, a lie, just like the modernist quote the whole thing is modelled on. I was painting all these random people, making them up, struggling with their blandness and impersonality, their indifference, and wondering why I liked the work I have been doing in my workbook so much more...? And it suddenly is clear that it's because the work in my workbook is what I really give two hoots about, it documents my life, the people I love, the things I do. And I still totally believe in my idea about people, about what's inside them being hidden, their hopes, fears and dreams and most of all their love. It's what I have been trying to paint all along, I have just been carrying it out in the completely wrong fashion: I can still get that idea across by painting someone I know!
Because really how could I hope to convey that from a made up one dimensional person, that I think nothing of once they are on the page? I should be able to write a novel about the person who I paint if I want to get across that we are so much more than we first appear. Thats what it really is, and it's really hard to get that across. It's not just "don't judge a book by its cover". It's the potential inside of people waiting to be realized, and the humanity that is all too easy to ignore. I think I just want us all to hold hands and to love and be loved.

Or something.

Anyway I feel so much more excited now.