I've tried copying a portrait by the Spanish realist Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta -- born in Rome 1841, died Versailles 1920. He lived most of his life in Paris. If Realism in literature -- French literature, at least (Zola, Maupassant, Flaubert) tends to depict the sordid, this is certainly not the case with de Madrazo. He painted pretty women in pretty clothes almost exclusively. His taste, if not his treatment of the subject, was Renoir-esque. If the notion of kitsch floats near his airy and blithe canvases, if you hear the beatings of its wings, try to match, or even approach, his facility, his technical near-perfection, and you may be left like me, one of his many admirers.
Painting and writing -- I've never known which of the two I want to do more. So why not both?
But I've come to realize that the writing tends to be lengthy, and may be too controversial, for a blog. So it won't be so much in evidence as my occasional absences from painting because of it.
I'm not a painting-a-day person. My Muses are fickle maidens and often skip away for weeks.
I think the subject of a painting should be intrinsically interesting -- and never far removed from the human.