Every Sunday night mom would sit down at the piano and play for us, no radio allowed and we had no TV back then. Mom would hang her apron up, close the cupboard doors, and walk to the den where a stand-up piano stood waiting. From the piano bench she would select a few sheets of music and set them on the music holder. I would press a key or two then mom would begin to play. Every now and then she sang along with the playing. Laying on the floor next to the piano I colored in my coloring book. Mom always ended the evening with the same tune, then it was time for me to go to bed. As I picked up my crayons mom would begin her sewing or needle work. A kiss goodnight to both mom and dad and up the stairs I went. These were the times that shape my artwork. I see such stories in other artists works, the first was in the works of Norman Rockwell.
We can live without art, but we need art to remind us we are human and in need of others. A young man drives his art, a 1970 Pontiac painted black with chrome wire wheels and sky blue lights lighting up the street beneath as he passes. Another artist arranges forgotten objects in a shadow box for us to remember and see the beauty in everyday things. We can live without seeing these objects or seeing this car, but we connect with ourselves for a moment, we are a part of something. A ballet dancer performs alone in a quiet street somewhere in Italy, people lean out windows to watch as a saxaphone begins to play. Spirits are lifted. Art comes in many forms, we need the arts like we need food. Food replenishes the body, and art replenishes our souls.
