We Sell Life

What is an artist besides a painter of pictures? We are storytellers, reporters, gossipers, and we are the conscience of our community, the soul that steers us. Our paintings are more than what we are, they are more than what we imagine them to be. A girl resting on a couch is a symbol of what a soldier fights for, or simply what a dad is thankful for. A scene of sunlight streaming down through the tracks on Wabash Ave in Chicago tells of life in the city to the storekeeper in small town Iowa. Scenes of farms, new and old, tell about life in rural America. Watercolors of life in India tell us how close people are no matter what the distance is on a map.

Painters are travel agents, ambassadors, and salespersons. We sell life in small towns and in big cities with our works of art. Our abstracts wake people up to what man is capable of, to the beauty and interest in colors and shapes. We spark minds, soothe souls, enlighten and enrich with our art. We record for the future and inform of the present. We bring attention to the evil as well as the good. Paintings of children herding cattle in Africa and scouring trash piles in South America have all been brought to canvases by artists. A strange and sad beauty fills some canvases. We may dismiss a photo of such things but a painting makes one pause a bit longer, especially viewed in a gallery setting. Fine wine and caviar, beautiful slender women discussing the meanings of paintings of children selling flowers.

I sometime feel the need to express more with my art. I hope what I am doing is bringing beauty and soothing someones soul who is out there working to improve the world.

If Those Figures Only Left Me Alone...

Unlocking the door to my studio is a bright moment for me. Stepping in I leave the outside world and enter a carefree world where I am lord and master even if it is only over myself. Past creations cover my walls, their warm greeting gives me food for my soul, energy to seek out what else may be brewing in my brain. Little things I see each day are there in my head bouncing around like in a pinball game scoring points for the next creation. A white egret, a stormy sky, and a pale horse try to pass the paddles I play with, building the score of ideas before the painting is ready to drop in place. Paintings of past models enter the game, Kim in white, Chenoa playing with an apple, Sylvia napping before a law examination. I need to make a decision. Which is strongest? The blank canvas waits, paints and brushes are ready for the call. A half started painting of Kim leaning against the wall lays on the guilt and the blank canvas is returned to the line of canvases waiting for the call. The landscape game is put aside.

The white shirt and pale slacks that so intrigued me came out before I was totally ready. Scheduled for an afternoon of drawing and simple sketching, I was overcome by the challenge of white and near white. Dozens of figures sit around waiting to be finished. They draw attention away from the easel painting, bringing lost ideas to mind. Kim in white whispered to me all during the three landscapes that occupied the easel. Landscapes that were already complete there in my head and only needed to be brought to the canvas from the palette… if those figures only left me alone.

Kim would not be left there on the floor any longer. She demanded to be finished. Trial and error followed as one setting after another was brought to Kim. No response. Sitting there arguing with a painting can bring one down. It was two days of struggle before I saw a smile on her face. She always wanted to be there in Sylvia's place. I told her people would talk, but seeing her happy made me happy. Closing the studio door behind me that night I return to the world of the sane.

Do I dare pick up another unfinished figure tomorrow?