I’m in the forest, approaching a small log cabin overlooking a still cool lake, a snowy mountain in the distance. I step back, startled by a sweet little fawn creeping through pine needles. As I step back I trip over a branch, I mean the rug; I’m back in my studio…
I’m painting a picture of a picture, a vintage picture painted on a slab of wood with visible tree trunk edges which sits on a fancy vintage hand crafted shelf. The light makes fun shadows on the wall.
When I look back at the photo of this in-process painting I’m fooled into thinking this is a photo of the actual object. The small ceramic deer looks three dimensional with the shadow projected on the painting behind it. Wow… trompe l’oeil! This is fun!
Nope. Not pregnant. Ha ha! This baby is on the way to her next display location, to hang around and wait for the right person to purchase her as a holiday gift for that special someone. Because, after all, doesn’t everyone need a painting of a baby doll hanging from a nail.
Actually, I love this one. I wouldn’t mind at all if she never gets sold. I have the perfect spot for her in my house.
- You wrote it.
- You didn’t care if you received 1 or 100 likes.
- You sat and bled just as Hem said to do and it makes perfect fucking sense to you.
- You read your work the next day and squirmed. You’re onto it. Keep going.
- You haven’t any choice but to write so you do. And you do. And you do.
- A family member read one of your pieces and said nothing. Instead they cried.
- You love yourself enough to write. So fucking write.
He was a beautiful corpse. That phrase keeps popping up in my mind. I think it’s the first line of my book. The book that’s inside me that I need to write.
I keep painting about him, hinting, being ambiguous, hoping others will connect with my paintings because they are slightly vague and more universally appealing, and at the same time including specific details so the people who knew him and loved him will recognize that my work is about him.
My book will be very specific. It will probably be described as heart wrenchingly tragic but sweetly beautiful. Certain people will probably disapprove and want me to keep quiet. But there will come a time when that swirl of feelings, visions, emotions leap out of me and into an organized pattern of words that tell the story.
In the meantime, I’ll keep painting. Now it’s his leather jacket. There’s still a cigarette butt in the pocket.
A work in progress….
I was painting self portraits of my tattoos and I used this photo of Marilyn as a reference when I painted my boobs because the lighting was better and it was easier to see than the selfies I took for reference. Yea, that’s it…the lighting, right…
My most favorite painting professor taught me that you don’t need to paint the bits that you’re not happy with, you can leave out the double chin, the crows feet if you want to, it’s your painting; it doesn’t have to be exactly realistic.
Isn’t that artistic license?
Sometimes I carefully select the objects in my paintings and arrange them to tell a specific story. Other times I simply select several items I’m drawn to for unknown reasons, arrange them in a way that looks pleasing to me, and then paint what I see. And then wonder what it means.
This is a recent painting of mine. It’s of three random items that just seemed to go together. An arrangement I stuck on my wall without much conscious thought.
It consists of a small knick-knack, a jewelry holder that would have sat on a woman’s bureau to maybe hold her rings or a necklace when she took them off at night — a trinket to hold trinkets. An old skeleton key on a red ribbon and some dried flowers hang behind it.
What does it mean? Does it hint at the impermanence of life, the delicateness of all things? Do you see the possibility of the plaster of the wall crumbling away, the nail slipping, and it all falling to the floor and crashing into pieces? Or does the light just look warm and make you feel good, like sunshine on a spring day?
Perhaps the items were hung on the wall long ago – a key to a lover’s cabin in the woods tied to a ribbon red like the blood that rushes to flush her cheeks when you kiss her, some flowers she tucked behind her ear one day on a walk through the field…
…Items stuck on the wall to collect dust for years until a great grand-daughter cleaned out the house for the estate sale. Maybe there’s a black widow spider hiding behind the ribbon ready to bite in defense when disturbed. Maybe…
I don’t know, maybe it’s just some crap I bought at a yard sale (but I doubt it.)
This one sold! Thanks to Willow’s Bistro in Winston-Salem, NC and the patron who purchased it from there.
If you’re in love with this one, I’m available for commissions. I can create you one just like it or include your own heirlooms in a composition just for you. Contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
These are still available from my 7 in 7 series…