Packson Follock Dollockhollcok

I went a bit Dexter Morgan on the garage.
Cling film, carpet and plastic on the walls and floor. The stage was set.

Filling empty egg-shells with paint and throwing them at canvas is a joyous release I really cannot explain.
The indulgence of it all, the glee and elation I feel. The fright of a possible miss, the eruption of colour as the egg breaks into a hundred, tiny pieces. The splat, splash and spatter. Akin to a fly on the windshield of a fast moving car.
Drive-by art.

I have no talent for the straight lines of drawing nor the relish of painting. But hand me an egg filled with paint and I’ll call it art until the cows come home.
Today was a good day. Paint everywhere, but the crime scene was relatively easy to clean up, all things considered.

The housemates will never know.
The works continue to grow.

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