"Grand Reopening, Eureka Books" oil on canvas
April 6, 2008
An Arts Alive opening with no sales. Okay, one sale, but that was a painting of Liz’s newest grandbaby, so she was practically obligated to buy it. The rest of the paintings – representing the past four months of my life – hung forlornly on the gallery walls throughout the three-hour opening, devoid of the little red stickers that would have signified they’d be going home with someone new.
Instead, the majority of the paintings will most likely return to my drafty old studio at the end of the month. How does that make them feel? Probably like adult children who are forced to move back home with mom and dad, victims of “troubled times.” Plus, I’ll undoubtedly keep working on some of them, humiliating them even further. So now I’m not good enough? You thought I was fine and dandy when you hung me up in the gallery. Put down the brush. Now back away.
You’d think I’d give it up. This painting nonsense. In addition to the new work at the gallery, there are more than a hundred paintings in my studio, choking out my work space, mutely reminding me of what a precarious profession I’ve chosen. And the stack of bills on the sideboard isn't shrinking.
When I work on a show, I try to put marketing issues out of my mind. I didn’t paint Zach, Liz’s grandbaby, because I figured she’d buy the painting. I painted him because I saw him playing alone, at a party swarming with children. He was sitting on his knees behind an armchair in Liz’s living room on Easter Sunday, bathed in the most exquisite light, all by himself, reaching for a blue-clad baby doll. I painted him on one of those small masonite boards they sell at Michael’s for a couple of bucks, and charged $300 for the painting, which sounds like a nice profit, if you ignore the expense of the rest of the show. And my time and whatnot. But time, like marketability, are realities I tend to ignore when I’m working.
"Zach" oil on board
“It’s not the work,” said Bill, my husband. “It’s the economy. Art’s a luxury. Who needs it? Let’s shut the whole thing down. We could sell everything and hit the road with an Airstream trailer.” Whatever. It’s the same old song and dance, every month the gallery has a bleak Arts Alive opening. When the tables are turned, and a show generates high sales, he’s right back in the saddle.
Just a year ago, I had a joint show with my friend Micki Flatmo, another painter, and we sold more than 20 paintings at the opening alone. Same gallery, same walls. It was the work from our painting trip to Paris, which turned out to be very popular subject matter. Still, my current show - Eureka interiors - should have garnered local interest. Lots of people showed up, but ... well, there’s no use belaboring the point.
"Cafe Waterfront" oil on board
April 7, 2008
It was Curtis Otto who ultimately made me feel better. Curtis lives across the street from me, in a salmon-colored stucco house. I was on the couch the day after the opening, feeling blue, when I saw him walk out his front door. He stood on the stoop with his hands on his bony old hips and squinted up at the sky. There were black, threatening clouds directly overhead, but he started dragging his paintings out of his house and onto the wet grass anyway, leaning the canvases against overgrown bushes and hanging them from that life-sized pink ceramic tree, the one Dominic crafted decades ago, before he moved to Thailand.
Curtis propped a small square canvas on the stoop and started stabbing away at it with one of his crappy brushes. It looked (from my position on the couch) like the painting featured apples, but they could have been tomatoes. He was wearing his khaki Bermuda shorts and paint-splattered hiking boots. If it were summer, he’d be painting without his shirt. The thought made me smile. Curtis. He’s in his mid-eighties and has had more career disapointments than anybody I know, but nothing makes a dent in his passion for painting.
Tomorrow I’ll probably be back in the studio. Like Curtis, I can’t help myself.