Hope the Other Shoe Never Drops
Earlier, I painted for a few hours. I like the new father and son in the forest. Nobody seems to see the figures, but I know they're there. I ran out of this beautiful purple and the replacement I got at Utrecht, (in Philly last week), is more red. They didn't have the purple I wanted. It looks like I need a yellow plastic paint too for the frames. Or a tealy kind of green. I figured I could mix it up. I don't have much of that kind of paint. I just started using it for frames last week. Acrylic! That's the right name.
I paint as though there's a market for my work. Most likely, I'll be storing hundreds more paintings in the garage. No surprise. I have hundreds of watercolor/pastels from the "turn of the century" in there. I hope Cousin B. is willing and able to actually convert the garage. I really love this house. I'm crazy about it. I'm planting more shrubs, moving plants around. Starting more bushes... I'm in love with this place. I feel so lucky to be in a house I adore. I know it's a privledge. It's like, for some people, life clicks. Situations lead to generally good things. I don't want to give myself any kinahorras. I'm pretty superstitious, even though I know it's spurious. Nutty, but in this case...
People are conditioned to believe if one is a professional, a real artist, then one survives by the sale of one's paintings. I don't know where that idea came from. Mostly, that kind of life went out with DaVinci. Rarely can an artist actually eat with painting profits. One would definitely starve. I figure one is a professional if he or she went to art school and paints all the time. I know art school isn't really necessary. It's a luxury. I got it and I'm grateful. I'm glad I exhibited because, even though it was mostly shit and a waste of time, having friends come was like a party, and the fact that I showed in galleries convinces people I'm the real deal. If I started now, I'd probably never bother with galleries. I did sell sometimes in them, probably more than from home, but I still hate the whole process. Well, I'm a mess dealing with that. I guess, at sixty, I give myself the senior citizen escape clause. And the ignore it clause.
Turns out that crappy shit is still on here. Motherfuckers.