Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
I'm not insecure, I'm just an artist...
It is Art at the Source time here in wine country, the west county artist's open studios, so I sojourned over to my hometown, to the street that I grew up on, to visit an artist who lives right across the street from the house my parent's built in 1953, where I lived for the next 10 years, till I got married. That in itself was pretty surreal. This artist works in pastels, and I was hoping for some pointers about things like paper, strokes, stuff like that. Here's what I learned - he works solely on sanded paper, which is not my favorite as I like to blend things a lot until the final layer, and it eats up my little spongy thingies. He uses his fingers. Okay, not doing that. He had drawers full of pigments, and yet in the painting he was working on, nothing was very bright. I like a lot of bright colors, can you tell? And he uses tiny marks. Don't think that will happen for me any time soon. I am, as my teacher told me, heavy-handed. I like to work fast and with a bold stroke. Okay, I had a moment of wondering if I am all right here. Should I change what I do, would that be more "artful"? Maybe someday. Not today, though. Hell, Van Gogh was considered nuts, Monet was considered "sketchy", everyone's a critic. I don't have to be one, too. I like my cow. He makes me smile. Smiling is never a bad thing.