I haven\'t done it for so long. I thought I was cured. I thought that I would not do it again.
Then I saw it, right there. I knew this dealer well - he has supplied me over the years, again and again. He was always polite, a real gentleman, and was always happy to help when I questioned the quality of his wares.
Now I was doing it again. \"What could one more hurt\", I thought. \"You\'ve abstained for so long, you\'re over it. You\'ll not enter this spiral again - you\'re clean.\"
Of course this was just a hollow phrase. We knew I\'d be back - and there I was, clearing the table of all the clutter. I could smell my old friends, full of solvents and chemicals I couldn\'t even pronounce, much less understand. They\'ve been waiting for me. They knew I would return. They were patient.
I unscrewed the first cap. This sensation was still very familiar, but my motions were rusted, forcing my will upon the plastic instead of smoothly coaxing out the desired liquid.
I shuddered; I wasn\'t relly dressed too well and it got quite cold in the basement. Outside I could see the moon shining like a signpost to a better tomorrow. My gaze swept across the room - I removed a bucket of trash from my table just for this. With a warm sigh I accepted it - I was back. I had to do this now and I would keep on doing it. And why not? Should a man not be allowed to indulge in a pleasure without equal once in a while? What\'s the point in ignoring the nagging desires that tormented me for so long and only granted me release in the sweet face of my instruments? Yes, those are instruments, not mere tools - look at them. Each and every single one handpicked from among a hundred cousins. Many still unused, yet more designed and created by myself, a wonderful rendering of a force that was needed for a certain task, an item so obscure that it could not be bought.
My scraper lies here - I remember it well. I remember the pain of production and the triumph of smooth surfaces that dwarfed the production process.
This is my prodder, a crude device fashioned from a needle, a dowel rod, a ball of green stuff and a knife. No other tool could fill the gap.
My attentioned snapped back to the task at hand. I wanted to do it. I wanted to do it so very badly.
So I did.
In the end I made two terrain pieces and a whole mini over the course of 2 or 3 hours. They are not fit to stand among their better, prettier brothers on this site, but they are done, they are mine, and eventhough they suck they served the very important task of reminding that
I am now once again compelled to paint miniatures.
And of course I have already purchased more than I have painted in the last few years. I remember that this is how it always was and always will be and I wouldn\'t have it any other way.
Then I saw it, right there. I knew this dealer well - he has supplied me over the years, again and again. He was always polite, a real gentleman, and was always happy to help when I questioned the quality of his wares.
Now I was doing it again. \"What could one more hurt\", I thought. \"You\'ve abstained for so long, you\'re over it. You\'ll not enter this spiral again - you\'re clean.\"
Of course this was just a hollow phrase. We knew I\'d be back - and there I was, clearing the table of all the clutter. I could smell my old friends, full of solvents and chemicals I couldn\'t even pronounce, much less understand. They\'ve been waiting for me. They knew I would return. They were patient.
I unscrewed the first cap. This sensation was still very familiar, but my motions were rusted, forcing my will upon the plastic instead of smoothly coaxing out the desired liquid.
I shuddered; I wasn\'t relly dressed too well and it got quite cold in the basement. Outside I could see the moon shining like a signpost to a better tomorrow. My gaze swept across the room - I removed a bucket of trash from my table just for this. With a warm sigh I accepted it - I was back. I had to do this now and I would keep on doing it. And why not? Should a man not be allowed to indulge in a pleasure without equal once in a while? What\'s the point in ignoring the nagging desires that tormented me for so long and only granted me release in the sweet face of my instruments? Yes, those are instruments, not mere tools - look at them. Each and every single one handpicked from among a hundred cousins. Many still unused, yet more designed and created by myself, a wonderful rendering of a force that was needed for a certain task, an item so obscure that it could not be bought.
My scraper lies here - I remember it well. I remember the pain of production and the triumph of smooth surfaces that dwarfed the production process.
This is my prodder, a crude device fashioned from a needle, a dowel rod, a ball of green stuff and a knife. No other tool could fill the gap.
My attentioned snapped back to the task at hand. I wanted to do it. I wanted to do it so very badly.
So I did.
In the end I made two terrain pieces and a whole mini over the course of 2 or 3 hours. They are not fit to stand among their better, prettier brothers on this site, but they are done, they are mine, and eventhough they suck they served the very important task of reminding that
I am now once again compelled to paint miniatures.
And of course I have already purchased more than I have painted in the last few years. I remember that this is how it always was and always will be and I wouldn\'t have it any other way.
