Tomorrow is a day of planes, trains and automobiles. As I write this, I will (with luck and no small amount of effort) be in the city 24 hours from now. I'll hop on a north-bound train with my artist friend and we will make another friend's opening.
I decided to journey at the last minute. Reservations were made, priorities re-arranged. The best adventures are often those we do not anticipate; the moments we let go and allow the moment to take us away. I needed to go and that is that.
I'm pulling the plug on this blog for the foreseeable future. It will be available by subscription, if anyone cares. I'm also taking it off my website and unlinking it from Twitter. Graduate school leaves little time for much else, and rather than write about art and my career struggles, I want to spend that precious time actually making it.
The audience for this blog is very small, and some of you I know personally (or feel like I do in other cases) and I thank everyone for supporting me.
two if by sea
studio wall, August 24
untitled paintings in progress, 30" x 24" (each), Rico '14
Stolen hours Sunday morning, a host of smaller canvases in play. Despite the intensity of the road ahead, I keep reminding myself of the days and nights I've left behind. Those days began as these, before the dawn hours. Then an intense office job all day, a workout mid-day, home to homework/dinner/bedtime routine until 8 or so and then off to the studio until the final hours of each day. So as overwhelming as it all seems in its newness, I've handled greater.
I am liking these small 30 by 24 canvases. They are big enough to work with and yet small enough to be portable and (perhaps as important) shippable. The doubts and agony of my last post are, -at least for the moment, fading. I must preserver and stay in it. I have to find the time. I know now that I will.
My upcoming plans for NYC are canceled. I had hoped to attend a friends solo show just north of the city, but I would sabotage myself on many levels if I made the trip now. As much as I need to see those friends, and as much as I need the encouragement I feel in seeing said friends getting shows and the accolades they deserve, I must respect the path I am on and its limitations. Such is life, we can't have everything we want.
By the end of this month I should have a handle on my schedule and what hours are available for studio time. For now I do as I have always done, I make time; stealing it if I have too, making the most of the unplanned interval, I have come to understand that it is about what I do and not how much or how often. If the time is fruitful, that's all that matters.
Self forgiveness is my daily practice as of late. I'm a person with enormous personal expectations and it is difficult to let myself off the hook when I don't meet them. Today, at least, it felt as though I did.
machinations of a distracted mind
I have been in the doldrums in terms of studio practice. There is no wind to push me onward, my vessel has been sacked by vicious swells, my sails ripped, and I have been floating motionless and uncertain for most of the past month. Voices in my head are at war: one side is telling me to walk away, the other is pleading not to give up.
After Damascus, I don't know if I have anything left to say. Recent disappointments weigh a bit too heavy on my soul, and the road ahead (graduate school) seems narrow enough with family, much less an art practice and all that comes with it. I am still toying with shuttering the studio in January, putting everything in storage and accepting a 2-year hiatus. And yet hope, that cruel lover, persists in whispering in my ear. Two decades down the line only to abandon it all, what then?
People tell me it is purely location. To an extent that is true. My overtures to NYC were neither unsuccessful nor ignored. Yet the effort is costly to maintain, and for most of this year I simply haven't had the means. There is no market for my work locally, perhaps even regionally. I spent years trying to break into Atlanta with no success. For the past 2 or 3 years I've simply retreated into the studio and have stopped reaching out altogether.
I am not a person who backs down easily. Tenacity (and perhaps sometimes pride) has always propelled me to overcome life's obstacles. When I realized that art was the thing, -the purpose if you will, of my life I dug in and I've never looked back. Yet human arms can only fight the currents for so long without a lifeline. Eventually we are consumed and sink into the depths.
The irony perhaps is that the world, now as much as ever, needs artists. Real artists who make us uncomfortable and do not merely entertain or provoke for provocation's sake. There are so very few, and fewer still whose work is truly meaningful and pure and cut from authenticity with sweat and blood and anguish and alienation. I'm not suggesting artists have to be unhappy people, what I am saying is that artists can rarely, if ever, be satisfied people. This time is a pivot point where new paradigms are rising. Art gives meaning and context to these movements, and it offers understanding.
I see our country in a state of unraveling. Our time as Empire is drawing to an end. 20 years ago that statement in some obscure blog or even in print wouldn't carry much weight or get noticed; now it borders on sedition to even utter it. So few people possess an understanding of art, partly because of the Art World's intentional insulation; money, power, blah, blah. Partly because we have purged cultural education from our schools. We're producing entire generations incapable of appreciating beauty and experience. They watch reality television yet seldom, if ever, seek any truth.
My time away last weekend was healing and steels me for the immediate road ahead. Yet there is this numb dissatisfaction that aches in my belly. If not through art, how will I be?
After Damascus, I don't know if I have anything left to say. Recent disappointments weigh a bit too heavy on my soul, and the road ahead (graduate school) seems narrow enough with family, much less an art practice and all that comes with it. I am still toying with shuttering the studio in January, putting everything in storage and accepting a 2-year hiatus. And yet hope, that cruel lover, persists in whispering in my ear. Two decades down the line only to abandon it all, what then?
People tell me it is purely location. To an extent that is true. My overtures to NYC were neither unsuccessful nor ignored. Yet the effort is costly to maintain, and for most of this year I simply haven't had the means. There is no market for my work locally, perhaps even regionally. I spent years trying to break into Atlanta with no success. For the past 2 or 3 years I've simply retreated into the studio and have stopped reaching out altogether.
I am not a person who backs down easily. Tenacity (and perhaps sometimes pride) has always propelled me to overcome life's obstacles. When I realized that art was the thing, -the purpose if you will, of my life I dug in and I've never looked back. Yet human arms can only fight the currents for so long without a lifeline. Eventually we are consumed and sink into the depths.
The irony perhaps is that the world, now as much as ever, needs artists. Real artists who make us uncomfortable and do not merely entertain or provoke for provocation's sake. There are so very few, and fewer still whose work is truly meaningful and pure and cut from authenticity with sweat and blood and anguish and alienation. I'm not suggesting artists have to be unhappy people, what I am saying is that artists can rarely, if ever, be satisfied people. This time is a pivot point where new paradigms are rising. Art gives meaning and context to these movements, and it offers understanding.
I see our country in a state of unraveling. Our time as Empire is drawing to an end. 20 years ago that statement in some obscure blog or even in print wouldn't carry much weight or get noticed; now it borders on sedition to even utter it. So few people possess an understanding of art, partly because of the Art World's intentional insulation; money, power, blah, blah. Partly because we have purged cultural education from our schools. We're producing entire generations incapable of appreciating beauty and experience. They watch reality television yet seldom, if ever, seek any truth.
My time away last weekend was healing and steels me for the immediate road ahead. Yet there is this numb dissatisfaction that aches in my belly. If not through art, how will I be?
the road
A road trip in the waning days of summer. A last blast before graduate school begins and with it a new life. Two old friends meeting in a great southern city; whiskey and great food, sights and long conversations into the dawn. There are people in our lives with whom the conversation never truly ends; it seems to pick up where it left off, no matter the time and miles between.
The road trip is about minimalism. One has to be honest with one's self about what they need and take nothing more. I am a one bag traveler. I refuse to check luggage except in the event of an extended stay. My childhood in the military life taught me how to grab and go, and I've always applied that philosophy to travel since. I like a clean, empty car with nothing but tunes, a map and a proper camera. I'll instagram when it's over, memories tend to happen when you're in the moment and not lost in cellular prayer.
I'm taking my time. I plan to wander, maybe even get lost for a bit. Summer winds and open road and back road discoveries will people the journal entries and sketchbooks in the coming months. I'll drink with locals. Tales of high adventure and good friends, and maybe, if I'm very lucky, new friends too.
Metanoia
Damascus, 120" x 84" (two panels), oil on canvas, Rico '14
I've been in the grip of a significant existential crisis for the past year. Recent events have forced me to question the purpose of making art to an unseen and largely silent audience. Damascus feels like a place where I am unsure whether or not I can push beyond. I'm not even sure if I want to anymore, but that is another post.
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| "The Conversion of Saint Paul-Caravaggio (c. 1600-1)" by Caravaggio* |
I was thinking of Caravaggio's The Conversion of St. Paul when I painted Damascus, and compositionally I think one can see the similarities. There are actually two versions, the other equally as influential for me personally and perhaps more generally known. The idea of metanoia (defined by Merriam-Webster as "a transformative change of heart; especially a spiritual conversion") is often associated with a psychotic break. It's the theme, to me, of Saul's experience on the road to Damascus. Without pushing for too literal of an interpretation, I consciously pushed visual associations with detonations and iconoclasm; the described event in some respect being a collision of the three monotheistic faiths.
Metanoia is a title I've wanted to use for an exhibition of this body of work. I feel it coveys the past year or two of my studio practice. I'm hopeful the opportunity for such an exhibition will arise soon.
Metanoia is a title I've wanted to use for an exhibition of this body of work. I feel it coveys the past year or two of my studio practice. I'm hopeful the opportunity for such an exhibition will arise soon.
*scan. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Conversion_of_Saint_Paul-Caravaggio_(c._1600-1).jpg#mediaviewer/File:The_Conversion_of_Saint_Paul-Caravaggio_(c._1600-1).jpg
How to say "no" to artists
As one would imagine, I've received many rejection letters and emails in my career. To an extent, if you're not getting these regularly as a creative person, you're probably not doing it right. We have to reach, we have to try to date out of our league; because otherwise we will be lost in the crowd.
Artists are perceived as emotional beings and this is not completely untrue. But we're also professionals and adults. There's been a lot of bandwidth spilled on the rules of engagement for artists seeking exhibition opportunities (I'm talking to you Ed Winkleman!*) but here are some guidelines for how organizations, galleries and curators should reject an artist's work:
Artists are perceived as emotional beings and this is not completely untrue. But we're also professionals and adults. There's been a lot of bandwidth spilled on the rules of engagement for artists seeking exhibition opportunities (I'm talking to you Ed Winkleman!*) but here are some guidelines for how organizations, galleries and curators should reject an artist's work:
- Just say no. Really. In most cases that's all we require; yes or no. Say it politely, say it professionally, but say it succinctly. I can tell you from experience that we know immediately when we see the envelope or email. There is a sixth sense that kicks in and the emotional processing begins immediately. By the time we read the actual words, it's about acknowledgement and acceptance and moving on.
- Don't apologize. This is business, don't make it personal. If the art world is like dating, then realize that the longer the rejection lasts, the more it veers into condescension or cruelty. You may have been out of our league and we knew it, or maybe we simply don't fit the program. But in the end, we asked you. You've done nothing wrong. "Regret to inform" is a phrase that should be stricken from all correspondence. No one informing truly feels regret in any real sense. It's an empty expression at best and at worst, it's just a cop out.
- Don't list criteria and tell us our work falls short. The right to decide is completely yours, but it is not your place to pass judgement on the work or what's behind it, -especially not based on a few digital files. This may be an effort on your part to soften the blow, but I assure you we are grown-ups and professionals and don't require any qualification for your decision. If you are a non-profit or public organization, what qualifications do the individual committee or board members have in determining if our work is "socially relevant" or "pushes boundaries?" Leave this off and stick with the facts. Keep it professional.
- Do thank us for applying. We have spent time and effort preparing our materials and reading your guidelines. Most of us have done our homework, and for whatever reason felt that we were a good fit, or we are reaching and very conscious of it. Even if you personally don't feel the work is up to your standards, or question how on earth we felt our work was a good match for you, please acknowledge that we put forth a professional effort. We (most of us) don't have interns. The time we spend putting materials together and meeting deadlines is completely uncompensated time; we don't even get to claim it for tax purposes. Your organization may be on a budget, but in most cases ours is even tighter.
- If "no" means "not now" then say so. Sometimes you may like the work, but it doesn't fit the show/season/event. That's OK and we completely get that. If something resonated with you, tell us! Encourage us to reach out again.
A rejection should be a paragraph long and no more. Inform us of your decision, thank us for applying, wish us luck if you're not interested and invite us to reach out if you are. That's it. Short. Simple. To the point.
I'd like to take a moment here to speak to artists. Do your homework. If you want to be treated like a professional then act like one. If you don't have a solid exhibition history in group shows, don't send your materials to blue chip galleries and expect a response. Don't waste people's time and don't give those of us who truly are professionals a bad name. Realize where you are, understand your work and what makes it unique and real and relevant. Don't ever be afraid to walk up to the prettiest girl in the room (metaphorically) but if you are rejected, take it like a champ and move on.
*For the record, I love Ed's blog. It is insightful, it's tough, and even though I may not always agree I do feel he does a good job of representing the gallery/dealer's point of view. Recommended reading for any artist who wants to take their career to the next level.
thoughts on inspiration and purpose
If you've read this blog for any length of time, you know that I often rail against what I consider the widely-held concept of inspiration. The myth of the artist sitting alone having that "eureka!" moment and then producing one of the world's great masterpieces. This is not only a comfortable fiction that widens the chasm between artists and those who consider themselves to not be creative, but it is inherently dismissive of the artistic process.
I believe art is a Way. Like martial arts (my daughters just started karate) it is, in the truest sense, a practice. One is never done; it takes a lifetime to properly master a practice. This runs counter intuitive to a product-focused culture, but that is another post.
I am always painting. Sometimes that takes the form of actively running around my studio working on multiple canvases, and other times it takes the form of reading quietly, or sitting in the back yard sipping bourbon and contemplating the stars. I look at the sky a lot. Whatever name one gives the divine, that presence is one hell of a painter. I've traveled end to end and border to border in this country and I've seen the many skies it offers. So I concede that yes, I am inspired by not only the sky but by everything around me all the time. But I say that without discipline and applying oneself to making the idea concrete in some way, inspiration is little more than daydreaming.
I have an active drawing practice as well. I am always sketching or otherwise getting visual information down in some form or another. I think visually. I think spatially and in abstract; and it took me most of my life to understand that other people do not. I recall meeting with a director when I was doing freelance set design, and he kept asking me for a rendering. I kept explaining the set, walking him through it and yet he could not see. I'm capable of envisioning a 3D model and rotating it around in my head, walking through it, looking at it from above, below and inside. I had to let go of my perceptions and communicate based on his perceptions, and that is a lesson I've always remembered. In visual communication, the job of the communicator is to make the listener/viewer see.
I once described my paintings as "constructed spontaneity." They look very spontaneous and perhaps even accidental, but they are consciously constructed. They are compositions in the true sense, because they are revised and edited and intentional in construction. It seems provincial to perceive abstract art in the 21st century in terms of "my kid could do that." Yet many people respond to amateur, flat landscape paintings because they do not challenge anything they believe. I don't think that's art. I don't think it ever will be. Gauguin famously said, "The ugly can be beautiful. The pretty; never." Aesthetic debates about the definition and qualities of beauty aside, I couldn't agree more. I don't dedicate my life to decoration.
The artist's job is to challenge perceptions and to allow us to see things in a different light. That can be accomplished through representational art, absolutely, but there must be something to it beyond realistic rendering. Take a photograph if you want documentation.
I was thinking the other night that my goal is to be an artist of my time and to create art of my time; art that somehow comments on this moment of the world, culture, civilization. I have no interest in making art of the moment. I told a friend this past weekend that sometimes I feel like I'm making art for 50 or 100 years from now.
One final thought this morning. I recall the opening reception for the SAM show back in January and what struck me is this; ask an artist what their work means, and they will start searching the room for an out. Ask an artist about their process and they will talk your ear off. We are process-oriented beings. The journey is the destination.
I believe art is a Way. Like martial arts (my daughters just started karate) it is, in the truest sense, a practice. One is never done; it takes a lifetime to properly master a practice. This runs counter intuitive to a product-focused culture, but that is another post.
I am always painting. Sometimes that takes the form of actively running around my studio working on multiple canvases, and other times it takes the form of reading quietly, or sitting in the back yard sipping bourbon and contemplating the stars. I look at the sky a lot. Whatever name one gives the divine, that presence is one hell of a painter. I've traveled end to end and border to border in this country and I've seen the many skies it offers. So I concede that yes, I am inspired by not only the sky but by everything around me all the time. But I say that without discipline and applying oneself to making the idea concrete in some way, inspiration is little more than daydreaming.
I have an active drawing practice as well. I am always sketching or otherwise getting visual information down in some form or another. I think visually. I think spatially and in abstract; and it took me most of my life to understand that other people do not. I recall meeting with a director when I was doing freelance set design, and he kept asking me for a rendering. I kept explaining the set, walking him through it and yet he could not see. I'm capable of envisioning a 3D model and rotating it around in my head, walking through it, looking at it from above, below and inside. I had to let go of my perceptions and communicate based on his perceptions, and that is a lesson I've always remembered. In visual communication, the job of the communicator is to make the listener/viewer see.
I once described my paintings as "constructed spontaneity." They look very spontaneous and perhaps even accidental, but they are consciously constructed. They are compositions in the true sense, because they are revised and edited and intentional in construction. It seems provincial to perceive abstract art in the 21st century in terms of "my kid could do that." Yet many people respond to amateur, flat landscape paintings because they do not challenge anything they believe. I don't think that's art. I don't think it ever will be. Gauguin famously said, "The ugly can be beautiful. The pretty; never." Aesthetic debates about the definition and qualities of beauty aside, I couldn't agree more. I don't dedicate my life to decoration.
The artist's job is to challenge perceptions and to allow us to see things in a different light. That can be accomplished through representational art, absolutely, but there must be something to it beyond realistic rendering. Take a photograph if you want documentation.
I was thinking the other night that my goal is to be an artist of my time and to create art of my time; art that somehow comments on this moment of the world, culture, civilization. I have no interest in making art of the moment. I told a friend this past weekend that sometimes I feel like I'm making art for 50 or 100 years from now.
One final thought this morning. I recall the opening reception for the SAM show back in January and what struck me is this; ask an artist what their work means, and they will start searching the room for an out. Ask an artist about their process and they will talk your ear off. We are process-oriented beings. The journey is the destination.
post cards from Istanbul
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currently untitled (in progress), oil on canvas,
120" x 81" [two panels], Rico '14
Progress today as I lost myself in retouching the Moroccan patterns by hand. There is a sublime beauty in Islamic geometry, and I found what I would normally consider a very tedious process incredibly meditative. I can't really say why I've suddenly introduced these motifs into the work other than the fact that I've been reflecting on a trip I took to Istanbul with my wife in 2006. We toured mosques until our eyes blurred and then visited the modern art museum. I don't think I've ever fully digested the work I saw there, though perhaps this is, at last, an honest attempt to do so. Seeing AbEx interpreted through a completely different culture's eyes was simply incredible.
I've begun researching more patters for incorporation into new work. I find the combination of order and chaos (albeit constructed chaos) very interesting. I have many personal associations, but for now at least I'll keep those to myself and allow people their own.
I think the next logical step for me is to begin mixing patterns and combining them. It's time to clear off the drafting table; I have a feeling I'm going to be using it a lot in the weeks ahead.
I took a fantastic photo of this with my phone, which caught a lot more of the refracted and reflected lighting on the thinner panel. If you follow me on Instagram, you can see it here. I'll be building out the abstract forms over the next few evenings and hopefully emphasizing and expanding those wonderful liquid-like moments.
Free
N. Main St. studio, summer of 2014
They say the truth will set you free, and I can finally announce that I'm leaving my day job and going back to school for a Master's. It may surprise some, but not for an MFA and not even in art. I recently discovered the world of UX design and it was like finding something I didn't know I was looking for. I start Clemson this fall, and my family and I are excited and anxious.
I have always maintained two careers; one for money and one for life. The debate rages on whether having a day job makes one a "real artist" but to my friends and peers at least, I am and will remain the real thing; and that's the only verdict I need. I suppose I'm multi-dimensional, so perhaps I need more than one thing to keep me busy and finally discovering the opportunity to break down the self-compartmentalization of my personality was a very liberating thing. I've been in a work environment where there are no artists, no people who perceive themselves as creative. I've felt the need to hold a big part of myself back all these years, and I can no longer bear it.
At my highest functioning, I need to be able to let go of persona and focus exclusively on what I'm doing. So I'm very happy to announce the end of the short-lived life of "Mr. Rico."
The studio work is exploding. I've got half a dozen canvases on the way, a bit smaller by my usual standards, and I'm excited about the weeks and months ahead. I don't know exactly where it is going, but I'm starting to paint in my head again every day almost constantly, so I know good work is coming.
I hope to have more time to blog, and to keep everyone up on the developments and work as they happen. It was already 90 degrees in the studio today, but I had a smile on my face the likes of which I haven't had in a very long time.
July will be about the work, and in August I'm taking a road trip to meet one of my oldest and dearest friends in Birmingham, a halfway point between us. Then it's off to Charleston to hook up with another life-long brother in the CRB. Looking forward to hearing them play and getting a chance to hang.
the turning away
untitled sketchbook entry, June 2014, Rico
I've been on hiatus from the studio. My process (generally) is that I will be in the studio and something will occur to me; something brand new or unexpected. I will get this information down quickly in some fashion: I'll write about it, lay down some drawings, or even dive right in to painting it. If it is very good, that is to say if I feel both excited and terribly unsure, I will then walk away.
If after a few weeks of ignoring it I find I cannot, I then embrace it and make it happen. So painting, working, sometimes happens while I'm doing other things; things seemingly unrelated to painting. In this case, the introduction of motif into this work struck me through accidentally stepping on my sketchbook. I wear Converse all stars almost exclusively in the studio and the print from the sole was so arresting on the sketch. It got me to thinking about pattern and juxtaposition and repetition. Order, and chaos.
Beyond ideas there is the doing. One has to make the ideas actually happen and this requires technical planning and practical considerations. (Stuff we creative types often consider quite boring). Yet there is tremendous satisfaction in addressing the practical and the technical when one finally drafts them in service to the idea, and that idea is then executed.
I guess I'm saying that sometimes I have to walk away for a time in order to see. I have to turn away so that I can rediscover. Painting is serious work. But it is equally serious play. It has to be fun, or at least satisfying on a some visceral level. Paintings need to surprise me in the studio.
So I'm back in it. I need life to ebb away for a time and embrace the practice. When I work I am free and when I stay away from the art too long I begin to come undone.
I experienced a personal setback this week. While these generally don't bother me, I feel as though in this case I was grossly underestimated as a person. Part of it was the medium through which the interaction happened, and part of it was, I think, my vulnerability at this moment in life. I couldn't get the people on the other side of the interaction to see me and ultimately I count that as a failure on my part. I'm going through a great deal personally and look forward to announcing something next week and getting it off my chest.
Until then, the studio and the work.
divergence
when we are tired we are attacked by ideas we conquered long ago
96" x 72", oil on canvas, Rico '14
The journey of my life has been ever towards my true self. It is a narrative steeped in adventure, disappointment, luck and struggle. Some will tell you that I've been through a lot, but I tend not to focus on hard times. I do not allow those moments to define me; the moments when I get back up and fight on are what define me instead.
For me, painting is about finding my voice. I don't think I've ever consciously attempted to make something new that's never been seen before. I've painted the way that interested me, and sometimes I've painted in the style of artists whom I admire for a time to learn about their process and materials. As I became more passionate about painting and as I've painted more and more paintings, I have moved toward a greater authenticity. As I have concerned myself less with content and narrative, the work has become (at times) more about story in a mythical sense.
I think the world (and the art world in particular) needs mystics. We need less religion and a deeper communion with the divine. We need to look up into the stars and clouds and feel our connection to the most majestic things and in that moment understand our own majestic humanity. If we can recognize it in ourselves we can hopefully begin to recognize it in others. Rare is the person who is killed for claiming s/he is a god. Common are those who are slaughtered for suggesting that we all are.
The past year has been one of profound existential struggle for me. I've wrestled with doubt and discouragement and even enduring, acute despair. Last Fall I was questioning everything and wondering if I could go on. Now I stand on the threshold of my next great adventure.
As I find my own clear and unique artistic voice, I find that the world around me looks and feels different. I interact with people differently than I have before. My day job has been a hard row to plow more often than not, but it has given me the opportunity to develop a personal resilience and fortitude in the face of harshness and alienation that I did not know I possessed. In my work environment, I am a unique mind and personality. There are no other artists, no divergent thinkers.
When we see life as a grand journey, I believe we are richer. I am surrounded by young students who see everything as a means to an end, and I am deeply saddened by the seemingly one-dimensional existence they are resigning themselves to. There's a joy and wonder in getting lost; there is an inexplicable freedom in not knowing what is coming next in life. I've lived on that edge for a long, long time and I can't imagine living any other way. I will never do just one thing. Life offers too many rich and exciting opportunities and there is so much to know and to experience. Choosing to live outside of our comfort zone is one of the most powerful life choices we can make. The rewards are boundless. Yes, there is struggle and pain. But those things come our way anyway.
This painting has taken months and taken a lot out of me. I struggled and struggled with it over the past several weeks; taking entire sections out, reworking them, putting them back in. How do I know when a painting is done? I think it let's me know.
Weird scenes inside the gold mine
My family attended the wedding of a good friend this weekend. The bride's father is a manager/producer and let's just say he's high on the food chain; not just in Nashville but globally. The house was extraordinary, the art collection mind-boggling and I'll just sum it up with one image:
A "selfie" by Ringo Starr, taken with a film camera in a bathroom mirror circa late 1960's. Signed. To said father.
The photo collection alone was a music geek's wet dream. Turning to leave the bathroom, up above the light switches...holy shit, a letter press print of sheet music signed by Brian Wilson. It just kept going. Taking in the Miro' on the staircase landing, I was filled with many emotions but ultimately I take some heart in the fact that people of that economic level collect art accordingly. Certainly not all of them, but some. Chagall, Warhol, Howard Finster, it just kept going; a feast to the eyes at every turn with a decidedly clear aesthetic. They were hung with appreciation but never in a vulgar, showy way. These people lived with their art, and I think that is what gave me hope.
It was a window into a world few of us (at my socio-economic level) get to see. Art that may or may never be viewed by the general public again. Out of respect, I left my phone in the car and didn't check-in. Alas, no selfie with the Miro', but everyone deserves their personal space if not their privacy. Who knows what treasures are locked in the temples of the 1% that will never again see the museums?
And tomorrow night, I will leave all that behind, suit up, and go finish the painting in the studio....
A "selfie" by Ringo Starr, taken with a film camera in a bathroom mirror circa late 1960's. Signed. To said father.
The photo collection alone was a music geek's wet dream. Turning to leave the bathroom, up above the light switches...holy shit, a letter press print of sheet music signed by Brian Wilson. It just kept going. Taking in the Miro' on the staircase landing, I was filled with many emotions but ultimately I take some heart in the fact that people of that economic level collect art accordingly. Certainly not all of them, but some. Chagall, Warhol, Howard Finster, it just kept going; a feast to the eyes at every turn with a decidedly clear aesthetic. They were hung with appreciation but never in a vulgar, showy way. These people lived with their art, and I think that is what gave me hope.
It was a window into a world few of us (at my socio-economic level) get to see. Art that may or may never be viewed by the general public again. Out of respect, I left my phone in the car and didn't check-in. Alas, no selfie with the Miro', but everyone deserves their personal space if not their privacy. Who knows what treasures are locked in the temples of the 1% that will never again see the museums?
And tomorrow night, I will leave all that behind, suit up, and go finish the painting in the studio....
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