Wake up, eat, prepare a surface, get absorbed (hear that sucking sound?) by the world wide web, then get myself out the door, hopefully carrying all the requisite brushes and paint, along with a large enough supply of water.
Then the park for three hours. It always surprises me how much those three hours take out of me, because I don't notice the time passing while I'm there. Afterwards, however, I'm wiped.
You are reading the words of one of the newly minted park regulars. I have been frequenting one particular spot, where the landscape is pleasing and the shade is good (sun radically alters paint colors, and can't be trusted).
Two guys come every day to a spot a few yards from my favorite perch, one on his bike, one in his car. They meet on a park bench. They talk, and laugh, for hours, these middle aged men, unkempt, one sounding a bit boozy, the other just slightly off his rocker.
Today there was a strong aroma of pot. Fun times. Reminds me of Berkeley, a not unpleasant thing.
I've been experimenting with using the existing background in my paintings, treading on and stumbling over the line between undercooked and overdone. I'm waiting for the day when I come home and Laurent says, "Oh, you didn't finish today."