It has been said that I overindulge. Too true. Especially with respect to art supplies. (I won't dwell on the thousand plus of pastel sticks in the basement. Susan Makara won't let me sell them or give them away as she is sure I will, one day, go back to them. )
My husband wants to have a professional painter do our upstairs. Those that didn't faint away at the sight of my jammed home studio, clung to the belief that we would empty the room. From the breakdown of price quotes, it was clear we couldn't afford to have them do it.
In my defense, I worked part-time in an art store for fourteen years. Where I had a discount. You can understand the urge to accrete. Also, I have a professional studio elsewhere. Both studios needed to be stocked.
I started the transfer today. I wouldn't let my husband help as I don't think the marriage could survive the knowledge of my curse. Best if he thinks I might be addicted without beating him over the head with it.
How can anyone own too many art books? Apparently, I do. The top image is of my upstairs stash. There are two more bookcases downstairs, groaning with the weight of images. Some I inherited from my mother. I hope to guilt my daughter into keeping the collection when I'm gone.
The second image shows some of my brushes. Most are in my other studio.
I haven't started with the oil paints, mediums, canvases, frames, printers, files of paintings done and research for those to be. It's too much. It really is.
I need an Advil.
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