I�m feeling fairly pessimistic about my ability to paint these days. I know, it�s a journey… if it were easy everyone would do it… you have come so far so fast… you are so much better than my friend�s cousin�s dog�s roommate�s nephew… other platitudes. Save it.

My mind keeps saying you�re not good enough. You started too late in life. You don�t know how to draw. You don�t know who the masters are. You don�t understand color theory or perspective or anatomy or gesture or toneorvalueoremotionorformorweightormassorbalanceorfengshuiorwatercontentorshadingorblendingorgradedwashesorlinesoredgesorlostandfoundorconstructionorrelativescaleoranythingatallyoushouldjustquitnow.

When I started blogging about my progress, I was hoping to document proof that you don�t need talent if you just try hard enough. I was (perhaps not so secretly) hoping to find that I was being modest�I actually have a lot of talent, and I won�t have to try so hard. Unfortunately, I have found that any talent I have is moderate at best. Any progress I have made is just the byproduct of effort and repetition. I�m feeling very down right now. And sure, I�m lingering on bemoaning my insecurities. But in this Instagram world today, where I am bombarded by meticulously staged snapshots of contrived and effortless success, I will be the fat sweaty gym rat grunting my way through another half mile on the treadmill, dreaming of Cheetos.

So, here�s me… on the treadmill.