Dostoevsky

Was in a bookshop in Oxford called Reservoir Books and drunkenly bought about thirty photos of famous writers. I've stuck them around my flat, and they seemed like good reference material for getting back into painting. Dostoevsky’s photo is one of a small lost twisted man. His eyes are just pits, like the rabbit in the headlights and there’s so much black around him to paint him would just be to slosh a pot over the canvas and sob. I was going to work more into this painting, but it feels fine just so.