My terror

Terror

On the fifteenth of March, I will once again ‘reveal’ my soul to the world. The last time I did a reveal was in 1975. Back then, the show was a two-man exhibition with another artist who went on to become a very successful painter in NYC. There was a review of the exhibition in the Greensboro News and Record, and his work was praised, and my work was questioned. By ‘reveal,’ I mean the sheer terror of an exhibition of your own artwork. This show is throwing my soul out there for all to see. There is nowhere to hide now. 

I put down the brushes a long time ago to build a company and raise a family. There was no time for painting in the ensuing years. Since retirement, painting has become my profession, and when asked, “what do you do?,”  I say I am an Artist. I started professional art lessons when I was ten, but painting is not exactly like riding a bike. One I started again, I have fallen off many times, and often overwork a canvas or get frustrated with the brushwork skills I cannot force my hand to accomplish.

My show opens on the Ides of March, in the Sales Gallery at Green Hill Center for NC Art, and there are supposed to be 20 or so paintings due to hang on the 13^th. I am so honored and thrilled to be having a show after all these years, but the Ides of March does have a few fearful fates. Caesar was murdered in the Senate on March 15. As the days pass on my calendar, my dreams are terrible nightmares. Caesar asking, “et tu Brutus?” Another recurring dream is that I am naked in the gallery and pretending no one notices. The third terrible dream involves critics laughing loudly behind my back, saying, “jeez, what a hack and an old fool.”

There are 14 paintings ready, and most of those are at the framer. There are eight more canvases with under painting started or halfway done. I work on multiple canvases at once, as oil paint dries slowly. Today, I thought I had finished a canvas, only to overwork it until it was mush. When that happens, you either toss them in the trash or sit them in a corner, waiting to see if the inspiration will ever come again. What my mind and hand do beautifully on a Tuesday, can be a disaster on Thursday. On Sunday morning, I may be on fire, only to be pissed at myself by Sunday at noon. When I am hitting the high notes, hours pass and I am totally absorbed in the work. When the brain does not click, I become morose, and start comparing my work to other artists, which is always a disaster. Am I being a bit hyperbolic? Too much drama?

Do not mistake my intent. I call my painting and retirement, “my third act,” I am incredibly blessed to have talents that allow me to do many creative things. I truly do hope people who come to my show will like the works, and purchase them. Green Hill is a passion, and I hope commissions will help fund the gallery in these troubled times. My last hope is that I leave behind a small legacy of art, so that my grandson can someday look at my work and know a little about his grandfather’s soul.

Epiphany

Christmas started slowly, building momentum, and as the days grew shorter, time began to fly toward and beyond the solstice, making Christmas and the New Year seem just a blur of the imagination, to the point where I wondered, was it a dream? On this twelfth night, there is finally a moment of quiet to place in words all the wonder and wonderment of the feasts of Saturn and Saints.

The balmy month of December began indoors with hanging hundreds of plastic snowflakes, as party décor for four hundred guests at Green Hill Center's Winter Show. It was a work of love. No snow this year, but flurries of party invitations. It seemed we were stepping out every night for weeks. Watching the holiday through the eyes of my four-year old grandson was extraordinary, and with a child’s sensibility comes wonderment, and sublime merriment. We watched him sing like an angel in the school holiday program, and listened patiently, as the Santa gift list changed daily. His mere sweet presence made our days joyful.

On the morning of December 24th, just after the sunrise, I watched a hawk in a tree twenty feet from my studio balcony. We were eye to eye, and we watched each other for a long time in the crisp, cold air. I wondered aloud if this Coopers hawk was an omen of good tidings sent from the better angels or spirits. Evening found us at home alone for the first time in our marriage. There were last minute preparations for Christmas dinner, but mostly we just lived for the moment in that crystalline glaze of wonderment that only happens on Christmas Eve. Some glamorous guests dropped by later in the evening, and we drank wine and nibbled by the encrusted Christmas tree. On Christmas day, there were ten at our table, and we dined on prime roast beast and fixings courtesy of the chef at Printworks Bistro. I called the meal, “Easy-plate-and-serve,” and it was certainly easy to enjoy and delicious. After desert, the frantic unwrapping of beautiful wrappings ensued, and the younger men in the family began to assemble toys in earnest. Nothing brings out more fun in a group of all ages than playing with little boy toys. Later, everyone slipped back for little more double chocolate cake or apple cranberry pie, or just a sip more champagne.

To wrap up the holiday up with a shiny silk bow, we were invited at the last minute to the coast with a dear friend, and spent New Year’s eve, and the first day of 2012 sunning ourselves in the balmy bright  winter light. In celebration of the New Year, we feasted on oysters, washed down with Prosecco. On returning home, I decided to paint while the beach and sky imagery was still dancing like sugarplums in my head, and spent the first few days of January painting many canvases. After celebrating the end of the season this evening with good friends, I can look back on this night of Epiphany, when the kings paid homage to Christ, when the Yule log burned low, and when the ancient Saturnalia solstice celebration ended. As I look back this starry night on the good fortune of the year passed, I am full of wonder at how truly blessed I am.