His name is something complicated in Arab speak, which I have forgotten. He is known as Mannie.
I’ve painted dogs and cats, but never a portrait of a horse, or a person, for that matter. It was almost my undoing.
I could not get that glorious shade of chestnut right. Ginger, if you like. I painted from a digital photograph, which has the advantage (?) of enlarging. Damn. I was counting his nostril hairs, every swirl of hide, and attempting to replicate them. In pure frustration I came seconds from plunging the bread knife into the canvas and carving it up. I didn’t. Knew I would never make another attempt. I over painted, returned to the absolute basics then walked away, with the uncomfortable feeling that the painting was unfinished. And never would be. Don’t have it in me.
My father, amongst other things, was a serious portrait artist.
He painted people. Presidents and politicians. He was driven to paint. The days, weeks even, I spent as a child and teenager, sitting still for hours on end, so he could paint. When he couldn’t coerce a sitter, he would paint himself.
This compulsion probably explains why he was a bit odd.
Not me :-). I am blessed. Hardly ever an overwhelming desire to paint. Highly unlikely I will ever cut my ear off.