#10 I dreamed I was painting. A brown background, not too dark, not too rich, neutral but varied and deep and glossy, like layers caught in glass. It felt really good to be painting. On top of my background, I put daubs of fleshy pink, loose and formless, but again almost translucent, light-filled. A very alive, lithe pink but delicate like you would imagine the inside of a womb to be. I was very satisfied in my dream. I had created just what I wanted. My painting was beautiful. It glowed.
I woke up itching to make art, but bothered by the pink. I have never liked pink. Nevertheless my best attempt at recreating it:
But I liked it better before the pink: