i love crackly and worn paint. i can't think of a time when i haven't. i love the texture. i love the faded color of old paint. i love the sense that it's been there forever. we have to paint our house this summer. we should have painted it last summer. but i am afraid for it to feel too crisp and fresh and new. i doubt it could ever look or feel too new. but i hate losing it's authentic time worn feel. the crooked front door we bought at an architectural salvage place has never been painted by us. i love it's patina so we left it the pale butter yellow that i would never have chosen for a door but i love it more than i can say.
i am happily very busy in the studio this week.

this little structure pulls me to it like a motherless child. i am a spiral of emotion and fullness when i see it's loveliness with gaping holes and wood covered windows. i can't drive past. the attraction is like an untold story from a life i didn't know i lived. and it's settled deep in me refusing to let me deny it, but never letting me know exactly what it is i'll never know. so i keep being drawn to houses that are partly strong and solid and partly rotten and crumbling. there is the blush of delight, the bubble of joy, the smile spread across it's broken front like a handful of dandelions clutched and drooping in the grimy fingers of a happy child. i want to lean against the stone. i want to dream in it's shadow. but i don't want to change a thing. i love it's story. i don't want a newly primped and prettily painted story. this is the perfect distinction between pretty and beautiful. she is already beautiful, my lovely little piece of yesterday. but she is not pretty. and doesn't need to be, her beauty surpasses it. clean and smooth and fresh and shiny would polish away her serene and effortless imperfect joy.