i'm sorry but milk won't come out of my nipples

i wonder if it's actually possible to paint anymore. it's got to a point where i'm so self critical that i can't actually get the paintings to do anything. It's like trying to get the focus and framing on a photography with the wrong lens. the criticism of my mark making has gone to two extremes, refusal and glutton, whereas with glutton and refusal at junctures it is essentially exactly how i ever achieve anything remotely interesting because the middle of the road is always tediously monotonous. the refusal manifests as a "completed unfinished painting", which is a contradiction in many senses, because it doesn't convey a coherent narrative but may have some interesting visual dialogue that prevents me from working into it, a nice bit of colour or a nice mark (on the whole they tend to be the unintentional ones at this point, or first time experiments that have worked perfectly - and obviously the preservation / documentation of which prevents their evolution past this initial discovery) that halts progress because i like it, and working into it normally destroys the raw aesthetic. This is in total contrast to glutton, in which i am struggling with make any marks that i enjoy and i fall back into the kind of intentional-accidental work that people fall back on when they are struggling to make anything interesting. this is where it becomes unstuck because i end up slapping paint about and being percussive and "expressive" in a way to try and create a familiar mark, which while it has come from a process of repetition, refinement and practise until it has got to this point (where it has become a fairly vapid creative bridge with the sole purpose of filling the gap until something actually valuable / meaningful / magical appears), it is still exactly that, a repetition.

or maybe it's because i'm deeply bored. and i object at having to "intellectualise" something i want to do to make me happy.