Why do they make me feel guilty? Because they're such a pure joy, because I'm just playing with colour, they almost paint themselves. It's the closest I get to a flow activity as defined by Mihaly Czikszentmihalyi in one of my favourite books, so I should just be glad about it.
It's silly because I often decry those people who think if you're happy you must be doing something wrong. All my other work has an element of hard work, sometimes disappointment, even despair. But these tiny things have no real way to go wrong, and it doesnt matter if they do. I just keep going until it's time to stop. They make me smile. They're forged from memories, photos, sketches, imagination and sometimes just from a need to know what happens if I mix white with ochre and juxtapose it with cornflower blue.
I should probably offset my guilt by doing the ironing. I totally hate that!
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