People look at my art and ask me questions:
Where do I get the images that I paint? They are the bits and pieces of my life, as I remember them, that are highlighted by my emotions. A feeling I once felt and a life that was once mine to touch.
My paintings are always in retrospective, as I explore what I imagine to be a commonality in mankind, that is we are more alike than we a different.
People ask are my paintings for sale? And only now am I beginning to understand the value of that question.
Woot! This month has been a whirlwind of excitement, from my first exhibition at Piano Craft Gallery, to my first overseas sale, to my first commissioned artwork, wait… what? And it’s all rather humbling, partially because the process of creating art is such a solitary experience, but also because it’s taken me out of my comfort zone and forces me to share me with the world.
I’m beginning to realize that as much as I enjoy those hours in which I hone my passion, both escaping reality and finding my real self, others are enjoying the results of my endeavors and the end result is quite sexy.
But as in all relationships, even this surreal one between a potential unknown patron and me, the artist, I have questions too.
Like, how come I can’t match the human skin tone? Exactly? Why can’t I replicate the various hues found throughout mankind, while using a Q-tip? And why can some humans change color in a blink of an eye, just by blushing? That’s a big question for me.
I don’t think that my art is less appealing because I can’t replicate skin tones, that’s not at all what I’m saying. What I’m saying is that skin tone doesn’t matter because it’s mutable and often times look muddy, both on canvas and in real life.
And what if that’s the real appeal of art, that it’s not transfixed, but rather it’s fluid and organic. We humans stare at a painting and feel what we see. Even with no formal training, art reaches out and touches us in some nondescript way, emotional like the Mona Lisa portrait, a smirk held captive by time. Period.