Thursday, May 26, 2011
The above is one of my many unsold paintings. I am rather fond of it. Still, it sits in a basement rack with many other paintings I'm fond of. In ten years of painting, I have been prodigious. I chalk it up to the excitement of discovering a talent late in life. Just last year I produced 40 paintings. (I was painting for two shows.) More than half of them are now stacked in my dining room. In twenty years of writing, I wrote five novels, a two food reference books and hundreds of recipes. All of which fit neatly in a several cartons in the basement. (The wolf spiders seem to enjoy curling up with these.) I can't help but wonder what will become of the paintings. I will never be famous or in serious demand. Reasonable people might suggest I stop painting.
I've donated dozens of paintings to the Art League Patron show over the years. My friends and family's houses are already clotted with my paintings. I've whited-out many pieces and reused the canvases for new work.
When my mother died, my brothers and I wanted her few remaining paintings. Spirited words were said. And when I die, my kids will fight over who gets my paintings. But neither will want custody.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Of all the things lurking in my subconscious, I never expected raw chicken to make an appearance. Twice.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
My brother thought his photo of Venice would be a natural partner to the piece. I stretched another huge linen canvas and began painting a month and a half ago. I had a great title: The Bridge of $ighs.
Yesterday, as I was explaining the work in progress to a visitor in Studio 3 I remembered something I learned as a writer. Whenever I had a play of words that required research to perfect (this was long before the internet made such quests a snap), the effort expended was an inverse proportion to the likelihood it would be used. Unless someone had been to Venice, this painting would always require explanation. So, yesterday, I chucked it, whiting out the piece.