Back to Basics.
Went back, for patience, painting what I saw.
One effort, the Slow One took a month. The second effort
took a day.
Upon the Northwest corner of Park Avenue and Arnold
looking at about 45°, the slow one.
Directly east is the fast one. Oil paintings from what was
in front of me, rather than made up images, pictures of what was in my life as
a statement of alive by being there.
George just came around and he may have been twenty, a
street hustler who hardly spoke. George was a kind soul with no hope and I
painted his portrait because I liked him. He was amazed
and took it home to his mother who said “that mouth don't
look like yours”. He didn't think that was funny but I did.
The Queen's Head consignment gallery roared to a close with me,
the principle participant.
The circus had but twelve members, Melissa Stiffler, James
Russell Abbot and his Eskimo woman, all, retarded. I listened to them for $25 per month. On or about the 4th of July,
after listening too much, with too much debt and not enough sympathy, and no
more time to waste: a forty-pound portrait that I doubt will ever dry.
The eyes ask you can you see? Half the face is falling off
one side of the picture. The consignment idea had missed its magic.
I painted a mural the final weekend we were open.
