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Like a Merry-Go-Round we turn a new face outward and yet recognize that change from so many times before.
I don't know why I should start out on such a two-bit philosophical statement but there it is. I guess I'm feeling at a standstill with contemplation of the past. I was flipping through Facebook and hit a picture of a log cabin from Pella and suddenly I was paging through the pictures of the Pella trust and playing the same old games in my head. I would look at a picture of main street in 1920 and think, was my grandmother hidden somewhere in that picture. Maybe one of my parents as a child being carried along a street there somewhere. Somehow the game makes them seem alive for a moment, caught unawares by the camera.
There's a picture uptown 1971 showing Gertie's window looking over the park and I think, she's up there now, sitting in the chair by the window, tatting with the TV on. Maybe it's coffee time and June's there too. Hidden, sure, but there. They're going about their lives and they're still there, not yet touched by death. Still alive and vital. Making their lives, in their little corners of the world. And while they're there, outside of them, the others are there too, including me. I'm there, and my life is ahead of me. All of the good things and all of the bad things. Waiting to happen. Nothing I can change, just wait for them to come visit me, one after another, in a row.
Well, that was pleasant and circular. Now I should move on. The world has snapped back into place and I can move on. I'll finish up here and decide what today's painting project will be.
It's a bit odd. Yesterday, I painted a picture of surgery and while I was doing it, I was kind of pleased the way it was working out, but last night when I looked at it, it had that Christmas Cat look and I was no longer happy with it. I'm not even sure that I can fix it with another go round. I'm not sure I know what's wrong with it.
My pictures straddle between realism and expressionism and not in a good way. There's just enough realism in them to make them disappointing. If they were more cartoonish, then I could live with the amateurish stupidity of them. They need to be more abstract, so that I can fool myself into accepting them as competent.
What crap!
More later,
I don't know why I should start out on such a two-bit philosophical statement but there it is. I guess I'm feeling at a standstill with contemplation of the past. I was flipping through Facebook and hit a picture of a log cabin from Pella and suddenly I was paging through the pictures of the Pella trust and playing the same old games in my head. I would look at a picture of main street in 1920 and think, was my grandmother hidden somewhere in that picture. Maybe one of my parents as a child being carried along a street there somewhere. Somehow the game makes them seem alive for a moment, caught unawares by the camera.There's a picture uptown 1971 showing Gertie's window looking over the park and I think, she's up there now, sitting in the chair by the window, tatting with the TV on. Maybe it's coffee time and June's there too. Hidden, sure, but there. They're going about their lives and they're still there, not yet touched by death. Still alive and vital. Making their lives, in their little corners of the world. And while they're there, outside of them, the others are there too, including me. I'm there, and my life is ahead of me. All of the good things and all of the bad things. Waiting to happen. Nothing I can change, just wait for them to come visit me, one after another, in a row.
Well, that was pleasant and circular. Now I should move on. The world has snapped back into place and I can move on. I'll finish up here and decide what today's painting project will be.
It's a bit odd. Yesterday, I painted a picture of surgery and while I was doing it, I was kind of pleased the way it was working out, but last night when I looked at it, it had that Christmas Cat look and I was no longer happy with it. I'm not even sure that I can fix it with another go round. I'm not sure I know what's wrong with it.
My pictures straddle between realism and expressionism and not in a good way. There's just enough realism in them to make them disappointing. If they were more cartoonish, then I could live with the amateurish stupidity of them. They need to be more abstract, so that I can fool myself into accepting them as competent.
What crap!
More later,
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