Despite my lack of posts, I have been working. Proof, you say? Here are a few digitally painted images that have made it through the bowels of my imagination to 'publication' (many other covers were photomanips but that's not really what this blog is about.)
Detail:
But wait! There's more!
And another detail:
Looking back at these, I find the experience a blend of "Hey, aspects of these paintings are pretty darned cool!" and "Ugh, Christine, you're such a hack." (But there again, isn't this just the way with us creative types? Annnnyway, back to my self-loathing...) There's this easy, air-brushed banality to my recent paintings that has left me a bit, well, empty. Okay, a LOT empty. Everything has become over-simplified and buffed to appeal to the idealization of the romance/erotic genre. I remember, back in early college, I used to pause by ramshackle abandoned buildings and marvel at their texture, their complexity, their ennui. I love things in distress. The more holey and faded my jeans, the better I like 'em. (Same goes for my men, but that's a tale for another time. Heh.) I don't want my world shiny and new! I want grit and nuance and dark-underbellies. I live in Suburbia; I get White Picket Fence every stinkin' day. But it's not where my muse lies; it's where practicality dwells. (I should give my muse a name someday, as much as I refer to him. Yeah, I've decided it's a 'him'.)
Okay, enough yakkity. Got work to do. But if it's any consolation, I appreciate you being here to share my woe, dear reader! Since you've made it this far, you deserve my sincerest, heartfelt commiseration. And distress.
