Our NC Art museum has held a piece of my heart since I was a child. Visiting the Norman Rockwell exhibition last year revealed brushwork techniques I had long forgotten. In February, a call for entries online for the inaugural juried "Art of the Auction" exhibition and sale at the NCMA caught my eye. On a lark, I sent in a digital photograph of a stormy tornado painting which I had entitled "Funnel". My longtime fascination with storms and tornados may have been linked to the "Wizard of Oz" or perhaps it was the memory of seeing an ocean waterspout in Florida when I was six. How can something so beautiful and mesmerizing have such fierce power?
Forty years ago, in calls for show entries, my work had been rejected by the NCMA which stung my ego at the time, and set up a change in my life. I had several gallery shows after college, and sold some art, but no luck in getting into the NCMA statewide exhibitions. After marriage, I gradually gave up a painting career to focus on family and building a business. After retirement, I began to paint once again. Images seemed to flow out of my brain straight to canvas, and 2010 was a prolific year in which I did about thirty paintings to get my hand and brain in concert once again. Not only did it feel joyous but it seemed to take me back to my roots of classes in oil, starting at the age of ten. Of these works, some have found a home with friends and family while others are locally exhibited.
As the final day for announcing the auction jury selection arrived on March 30th, I concluded that I had been rejected once again. Then a late afternoon email arrived. After forty long years, an acceptance letter from NCMA may seem like a silly bit of vanity, but reading that letter gave me an enormous sense of validation.
The week of my 60th birthday, I delivered the painting to the museum and met my wonderful sister-in-law for a lively lunch at the museum restaurant. After hearing the news of my acceptance, she asked if she and my brother-in-law could come to the Preview event. In a few days the group had grown to include my wife and daughter, and my niece and her fiance. We all gathered in the courtyard, and found our way to a table and the catch-me-up southern family chatter began in earnest.
On a quest to find my painting, I slipped away from the table. My eyes searched the galleries downstairs, with no luck. I went back upstairs and in a prominent corner by the entrance, there it was, and there I was; standing in front of my own painting, with joy and amazement. It was one of the most powerful moments of my life. As I stood there, I felt a tear rolling down my cheek, and such enormous pride, thinking of my parents, who had given me that first paint set and lessons fifty years earlier. A female guard, watching my reaction, asked, "Is this your first time hanging here?" I nodded yes, because I could not speak. She reached in her jacket pocket, and handed me a tissue, saying, "Congratulations." I will never forget that dear woman's face and kindness.
I then took my family, one by one, to see the painting, and we celebrated our excitement with toasts and several more glasses of wine. At half past eight, my sis-in-law announced that we had reservations to eat at "Iris," the stunning new restaurant in the new museum building. Off we went and enjoyed a wonderful family meal. The drive home was quiet, and as the night progressed, I found myself wide awake, savoring every moment of the delicious night.
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