"Rendering" by Jackson Pollock
What did I do wrong? This is the second Saturday I have been up a ladder painting the rendering on the side of our house. Painting rendering should be made a punishment for petty criminals. Several hours of this activity would convince them never to break the law again. "No - not painting of rendering! Fine me, give me community service, lock me up in the cells but please - I beg of you - don't make me paint that rendering!"
For the benefit of overseas bloggers and ignoramuses, what exactly is this "rendering" to which I keep referring? Well, back in the 1920's when our house was built, it was considered fashionable to cover first floor brickwork with a mix of mortar and stones. This is what we call "rendering". The stones are knuckle sized and the resulting surface is coarse and uneven - making painting an absolute nightmare. You have to dab and swirl, swish and prod - and you often find yourself going back over what you have already painted.
My right hand feels as sore as hell through five hours of wife-inspired punishment. This is certainly not the kind of painting that Katherine at "The Last Visible Dog" is so good at. I bet her wrists don't ache like this after a session at her easel. No! What I was doing was real painting. Painting that hurts.
Painting interior walls, doors and windows can actually be quite relaxing - almost therapeutic -as one's brush or roller glides over the surface while a pleasant radio show plays in the background. But painting rendering is definitely not like that.
Today was the first official day of Spring but as I stood on the flat roof of our house extension, a chilly wind was funnelled through the gap between the houses all day. My face is red and chapped like an Arctic explorer's. And though I tried, I did not quite finish the painting today. There's a couple more hours left to do in the morning. Oh woe is me!