I had a professor friend who taught me the "old ways," and to this day I prefer them. There is nothing like stretching your own canvas, the smell of rabbit skin glue wafting through the studio and bloody, scraped knuckles and sweat. Knowing that I'm building just like the altiers of old gives me sense of connection to heritage. I don't have to do this; I could buy ready-made cavases. But there's something about doing it, it's a journey. Going large is like an epic wrestling match; the challenges are myriad. But when you get it right, when you hear that taut drum hum of the surface as you flick it, -it's a pleasure all to its own.
It was 93 degrees in the studio today as I pulled and stretched and stapled. I was dripping when I left, but when I look at that big, blank canvas I feel true joy because I know that over the course of five months I have brought a picture from my mind's eye into physical being. This work was always this size; it simply took me this time to get there.
I'll size this canvas in the next day or two and then I'll start applying black gesso. It has begun. It has begun.
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