Aaron and Joanne were here for dinner. Aaron was commenting on how much he likes my house. I told him it’s his (and Tamar’s) when I die. He said he hoped that wasn’t in my plans for soon. Oh, no. I suspect at least another thirty years.
Then we started musing on what it would be like to live into our hundreds, say 110. And still functioning (more or less). Maybe sitting in a wheelchair and painting with brushes strapped to my arms. Doubtful. More likely I would write, not paint. Joanne asked me if I’d ever written a novel. No. I only write about thoughts and things that happen. And then, of course, I wanted to show Joanne a poem I had written a while back and, as she is an appreciative audience and attentive listener, it led to reading many of them.
I never show them to people. It’s just a private matter at this point. But as I leafed through the binder, I had the thought that they aren’t too different from my paintings. How some stand out as being very special to me and others, although good, don’t have that special tug on my heart, not so connected to something indefinable, that makes me want to look at them for a long time (or in the case with poems, read them often). With paintings, I can go over them again and again, changing little and big things and sometimes it works quickly, sometimes it takes years to get them to where I feel right about it, where I can’t do another thing, where the painting says STOP, this is IT, nd I know the painting is right.
It’s hard when I need to sell in order to make more. I’m sure every artist’s studio has work of differing quality. I know different people respond to different apsects and experiences. But I want every piece to be the best. It’s not a bad goal.
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