It seems the last three paintings I executed (good word, that) were really different from one another. Looking back, there were really good reasons for that. The landscape came out of a demo I saw at our local art supply store, the cows came from the dregs of the palette for the landscape, and the Cezanney thing came from a picture I saw that sparked my interest. Still, all are art, I suppose. After all, art lives on many levels. It is esoteric, of course, meant to provoke emotion, different ones at different times for different people, but emotional, nevertheless. For some, it has intrinsic value, it is a good investment. There is prestige in owning original art, even if it is ugly. I think most people own art because they view it as an object of beauty, something they can gaze upon every day and fall in love with, over and over again. And then there are those of us who just make it, and hope something magical happens in the doing. For this artist, there is very little mind in the paintings. It is a heart thing, and, once completed, they become like my beloved children. It is hard to part with them, on the rare occasions I have done that. The camera helps. And, I can do it again, produce new ones. I don't know anything more satisfying than going to bed at night knowing something exists that wasn't there when I got up, whatever that something might be.
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