Painters, Teachers, my friends.
I sit, looking at photographs upon my
studio floor, thinking "just what is it about them I'm trying to
say?"
What is there to describe the
"why" of them. The photos stare up at me, lying grouped by artist,
the initial group, and my second pass through Vincent. In my beginning as a
painter I had a "VanGogh thing", mostly because of what I thought was
my sorrow.
Vincent and I started sharing that sorrow,
as souls 100 years apart, during 1988, as I painted his works almost 100 years
to the month. Always, I'd loved Vincent’s work and the essence of what I'd
wanted to do as a painter began with my friend VanGogh.
Smiling now, my collection of
"VanGoghs" is softer, and my life softer than his as well. Each of
the
pieces reflect something from my life and
something from his. I wish Vincent had faith; it would have set him free.
Whenever
anything gets too complicated, it's wrong.
Life
is constant simplification.
No
one survives alone.
Everyone
is important.
Someone
Else's Ego Can Kill You
Watch
out for folks claiming genius.
Most
times, the hardest things to see
are
those right in front of you.
Don't
wish you could be
what
you're not, be the best you are.
My
self stands where another saw,
my
alignment frees me of pain.
Sweet
smells and wonderful
ideas,
hanging over our bed.
"Goodbye
Vincent. I love you."
July
21st, 1990
