Break something, instead of “break a leg”. That is my motto. Yesterday- A glass and a painting- fall, crack turn into a new form, unusable. This happens right before my opening. I took a Portfolio to my opening, sold each piece for $25. I sold over 11. I look at pictures now, of each piece. They are like people to me. They are part of my special collection of art, the pieces that have made it through every edit I’ve gone through in my studio. They know all my secrets. I feel like I adopted them out, the paintings, like spies infiltrating new spaces, bring my secrets with them. like they were going to good homes, like they will no longer be in a dark drawer. No light, no wall. Wait to be noticed again, wait to be framed with lots of space around them. They are the pieces that carry a story, part of a series. My hidden little gems that never made it into any shows, they were too special in a way. In a way I’ve sold my most precious, unique pieces of art for $25 each. Luckily there are still more, and of course more will always be made. I didn’t sell any large pieces yet, but I had interests. Those are the daddies and mommies of everything. The framed work in the Gallery and the Notebooks are a bridge from my past to my future. They are like rocks surrounded by feathers. I am certain they will sell. I will have money for my next book project. I want to write several books; each book will include/be dominated by pictures. I need a lot of money. The photographing of my work for the books is expensive. I have the paint and substrates. I have the content. I need money for the publishing fees.
A windy fall afternoon, the ground adorned with large light tan fig leaves with rusty tops. Pink and magenta bougainvillea leaves, wispy sticks and thick sticks. Deep red wine. Long legged dark brown spider crawling across the floor in the morning. Yellow school bus, purple sage. Studio full of paint, paint drips, paint splatters, dark, dirty charcoal, paintings, drawings, frags, all contained. Work leaves my studio, graduates, becomes contained in a frame, hangs, is looked at, is bought, is re-hung in a new location. The cycle repeats, spreading an idea, a concept, a mistake, a masterpiece. I remain, for now, to create, to paint, to write, to care for, to love. I circle on through the Fall, through the Winter, through the Spring, through the Summer. One year leads to the next. One years’ worth of work contained in my series “Never Enough Time”. From Autumn to Autumn, from days before Trump was elected. My studio gave me a refuge, a place to react and deactivate my murky days. To bring me back into focus, to work though my feelings and emotions, to come back into being a homemaker, a mother an artist. Practicing becoming me, a full version of me. Artist and Mother and Wife. I look at my work for this show, all together as a group. I have worked hard. I see my growth as an artist, aesthetically, an esthetic that is uniquely me. It’s beautiful and scary simultaneously. It’s my whole self, my innards and outers exposed for everyone to consume. It’s a glass of deep red wine on a late fall afternoon