Getting ready for Open Studio
This year I have too much of my new series for the amount of walls. Can I hang from the ceiling? On the ceiling? But I guess it's not about quantity.
A friend advised me that my studio at the event always looks too much like a gallery. She advises to be like another artist who has paintings from floor to ceiling and in piles; lots of work; and says "she looks more eager to sell." So yesterday, I managed to precariously lean way over on the ladder and hang some small paintings way up near the ceiling. Looks cluttered. I'll take them down if I can get up there again.
In all my time painting, I have only thrown out one piece and that's because I thought it might be radioactive. I have destroyed many works by painting over them – what I call a "sacrifice" – my private, pagan offering. If the piece being sacrificed was quite good, it lends good energy to the new painting. When these paintings go to someone's collection, I know how much is under the surface and it feels like a multiple sale.
We are asked to donate a piece of art for the auction. That causes me to go through a lot of older work hunting for something that is great but that I can give away. I get a lot of stuff out which needs work, or framing, or matting. Then I run out of time and shove it all back into the cupboards again. Once I choose a piece, it simultaneously loses its value and goes up in value – which makes it hard to price.
|20th and Rhode Island, 12"x16", plein air|
I chose a really nice, little plein air landscape this year. It's a view of a steep hill. I was in an emotionally crisis when I painted it, but sat in the car on the corner all day painting for two days. The edge of the hill is a bit furry. I tried repeatedly to sharpen it but it kept going furry. Maybe it's the horror I was feeling right there on the canvas. And some idiot moved the car. (It's not their fault but still...) As a finished work, it an old-timey 1930s naive quality. I already regret giving it away, but maybe someone will love it as I do.
Going through all the old pieces I can't believe I still have so many. I love them all and I love their flaws. They record the feelings I had throughout my life and each one has a story.
People say "They're like your children, ha, ha, ha." They are the stories of my life – more like my autobiography. It's hard to think of an autobiography where each paragraph is being sent to a different home, forever.
Anyhow, here is a bad photo of this large new painting, a still life of a pile of stuff with fake fur, animal print and feathers. Needs a title.