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The stereotype of the turbulent, temperamental artist is not a false one, although on my better days I probably tell people it is. The last few days I've been a walking visual aid of this particular stereotype.
Thursday night was art walk. I didn't sell anything that night, but was contacted after the show by several people that were interested in my pieces. I just sold "The Innocents" through The Art Gallerist . It was the first of my butterfly series.
It was just a little painting, but I loved it. I'm sorry to see it go, just because it's now away from the rest of it's family, so the series just got smaller.
Also I sold the most recent painting I did of the headlights coming through a windshield in the rain, which is hard to part with because I feel like it was a painting that marked a turning point for me.
Also, another person said that they were interested in buying Chatty Cathy, which is not a part of the 100 paintings, but a definite favorite of mine:
On Thursday night, I had a dream that I went to the beach and burned all my paintings in a huge bonfire. It was such a relief, and I felt freer with every canvas that I slipped into the fire. With the knowledge that all my paintings were destroyed and that I had no visual legacy to heft around with me, I felt at liberty to travel the world with nothing but a torn pair of jeans, an all purpose black t shirt and a messenger bag containing a sketchbook and a spiral notebook.
Then, I woke up, got out of bed, and realized that I could barely breathe, my lungs were on fire, and my heart was being crushed beneath a boulder. I had felt this before. It was the beginning of pleurisy, an inflammation of the lungs that totally sucks and has killed greats such as Charlemagne, Hernan Cortes, Benjamin Franklin, Catherine de'Medici and William Wordsworth. People generally stopped getting it in the 20th century, but somehow I found a way to contract it. Its recurring, so once you have it, you are likely to get it again. When I felt the symptoms, I knew the only way to repair was to rest and breathe shallowly...for weeks. This put a damper on marathon training, so you can imagine my frustration.
Pleurisy usually sticks around for days and days, but as I write this only 2 days later, I am able to breathe with the ease of a spring flower. This leads me to believe that what I was experiencing w
as not pleurisy, but the result of breathing in varnish for about 8 hours straight. I've never admitted being affected my toxic chemicals before, and even felt invincible to the caustic effects of ployurethanes, varnishes, mediums, bleaches, cleaning supplies and yes, even onions. (I denied until recently that chopping onions made me cry. Then Tom caught me in the kitchen a few weeks ago, bent over a cutting board, weeping, and I had to admit that I was not impervious.) Now I admit my mortality. I will be more careful from now on, only using the really nasty stuff out of doors.
I don't know if the fumes had an emotional effect on me as well, but HOLY HELL was I wrecked. I mean, bad. Weeping, catastrophizing, threatening to dye my hair, and running late at night when I know there is a neighborhood creep that stalks me with his camera while I run. Out. of. My. Mind.
I feel much better today though. After going to the Gypsy Den, a little cafe where I worked for about 3 years, nostalgically ordering the Mediterranean Pasta Salad, taking in the bad art and obsequious obscure music, I felt back to my normal self. (which is not saying that much)
Now that I've spent ten days in an ecstatic whirlwind, in which time I decided to give up painting 4 distinct times, thought about burning all my paintings and donating the money I've saved to Roma Downey and her brood of cleftlippers, considered moving to Vietnam to teach English, and nearly destroyed my relationship (if only in my head), I'm ready to get back to business.
Now on painting sixteen, watch out world. Here I come.
Thursday night was art walk. I didn't sell anything that night, but was contacted after the show by several people that were interested in my pieces. I just sold "The Innocents" through The Art Gallerist . It was the first of my butterfly series.
It was just a little painting, but I loved it. I'm sorry to see it go, just because it's now away from the rest of it's family, so the series just got smaller.
Also I sold the most recent painting I did of the headlights coming through a windshield in the rain, which is hard to part with because I feel like it was a painting that marked a turning point for me.
Also, another person said that they were interested in buying Chatty Cathy, which is not a part of the 100 paintings, but a definite favorite of mine:
On Thursday night, I had a dream that I went to the beach and burned all my paintings in a huge bonfire. It was such a relief, and I felt freer with every canvas that I slipped into the fire. With the knowledge that all my paintings were destroyed and that I had no visual legacy to heft around with me, I felt at liberty to travel the world with nothing but a torn pair of jeans, an all purpose black t shirt and a messenger bag containing a sketchbook and a spiral notebook.Then, I woke up, got out of bed, and realized that I could barely breathe, my lungs were on fire, and my heart was being crushed beneath a boulder. I had felt this before. It was the beginning of pleurisy, an inflammation of the lungs that totally sucks and has killed greats such as Charlemagne, Hernan Cortes, Benjamin Franklin, Catherine de'Medici and William Wordsworth. People generally stopped getting it in the 20th century, but somehow I found a way to contract it. Its recurring, so once you have it, you are likely to get it again. When I felt the symptoms, I knew the only way to repair was to rest and breathe shallowly...for weeks. This put a damper on marathon training, so you can imagine my frustration.
Pleurisy usually sticks around for days and days, but as I write this only 2 days later, I am able to breathe with the ease of a spring flower. This leads me to believe that what I was experiencing w
as not pleurisy, but the result of breathing in varnish for about 8 hours straight. I've never admitted being affected my toxic chemicals before, and even felt invincible to the caustic effects of ployurethanes, varnishes, mediums, bleaches, cleaning supplies and yes, even onions. (I denied until recently that chopping onions made me cry. Then Tom caught me in the kitchen a few weeks ago, bent over a cutting board, weeping, and I had to admit that I was not impervious.) Now I admit my mortality. I will be more careful from now on, only using the really nasty stuff out of doors.I don't know if the fumes had an emotional effect on me as well, but HOLY HELL was I wrecked. I mean, bad. Weeping, catastrophizing, threatening to dye my hair, and running late at night when I know there is a neighborhood creep that stalks me with his camera while I run. Out. of. My. Mind.
I feel much better today though. After going to the Gypsy Den, a little cafe where I worked for about 3 years, nostalgically ordering the Mediterranean Pasta Salad, taking in the bad art and obsequious obscure music, I felt back to my normal self. (which is not saying that much)
Now that I've spent ten days in an ecstatic whirlwind, in which time I decided to give up painting 4 distinct times, thought about burning all my paintings and donating the money I've saved to Roma Downey and her brood of cleftlippers, considered moving to Vietnam to teach English, and nearly destroyed my relationship (if only in my head), I'm ready to get back to business.
Now on painting sixteen, watch out world. Here I come.
