Well I’ve been doing some calculating and so far in the last 2 months I’ve sold (or given away) over $600 worth of original work. Thank you so much, God! If I couldn’t call myself an artist before, I can certainly do it now, right? People like me! They really like me!
It’s a month after Christmas and I’m busier than I ever expected to be. Painting is always something I’ve done for fun, and if I’m not painting, I’m drawing, and if I’m not drawing, I’m doodling. And if I’m not doodling, I’m biting my nails. I just can’t seem to turn off my hands.
But I love painting. I love it. I love the blank surface. I love making that first mark. I love blending colors with my fingers and my arms. I love the mess. I love painting. It’s mindless and yet it’s so difficult. I completely zone out. It’s almost like I wake up and BAM! There’s a painting in front of me.
For this reason I am so totally stoked that some friends of mine are not only buying some of my art, but they’ve also given me a whole buttload of wood scraps with which I will do beautiful things. It’s all propped up against a wall in my garage and I have to tell you, I’ve gone out there several times since they dropped it off yesterday–like a kid peeking at Christmas presents under the tree. I’ve picked up each piece of wood, felt how smooth it is, how heavy it is, determined “sign” or “picture”…I’m excited. So, so, excited.
In college I took Art History–not the bobo art history for non-majors, but semesters of the hardcore stuff. I took drawing classes and photography classes, illustration classes and computer graphics and design classes. Scultpture and digital imaging, painting, etc. and in every single class, it seemed like I’d have to do a report on an artist chosen for me by the teacher, an artist who, for some reason, the teacher thought I’d “connect” with on one level or another. I never understood it then. I thought they were all weird. “There’s way more to life than art and alcohol, loser,” I would think. “Frida Khalo, you are a sick freak.” or “Enough with the naked chicks!” and of course “For some reason, these simple black-and-white photographs of peppers and seashells are causing me to have lustful thoughts.”
But I will tell you–I never covered anyone boring. Every artist seemed freaking crazy. Crazy alcoholic, crazy schizophrenic, crazy obsessive-compulsive, or just plain crazy. And every artist was totally ate-up with creating. So, I get that now. I really do see how a person could be so completely wrapped in a painting or a sculpture that they just go off the deep end.
Not that I will.