Tuesday, March 10, 2009
I don’t believe in living with one's own art. I’ve spent the past few days debulking my house of paintings, drawings, frames, and supplies. Canvases rolled up under the bed, paintings stacked in the hallways, closets filled with stretched work (I hate stretched paintings, so easy to damage, so awkward to transport…)
All that stuff now has a home in my studio, where it can be properly inventoried, stored, and looked-through. I can begin to think straight again.
The artwork I want to live with is that of others, my friends and colleagues, inspiration and memories.
Here’s an exception, though. I did this painting of my grandparent’s backyard almost 20 years ago. I remember the afternoons I spent on the patio making it. Now their house is empty, unsaleable in this economy. My relatives still hope it’s valuable, when like all property, it’s not, and moreover, the house if falling to ruins.
But my memories of it are like this painting, dotted with sunshine, softened with a martini, sharpened with practical advice and intelligent conversation. I don’t even feel it's my painting, it has so many other meanings in it now.