Friday, December 03, 2010

Painting

I have been thinking about my work and the meaning it gives to my life. There are two views on this. One is that work is what you do during the day and that living is what you do outside of work. This is the don't quit your day job philosophy. The other view is that work itself is supposed to provide some meaning to life, that it is an outgrowth of who you are and should represent something meaningful. The majority of us, unfortunately, are stuck in mode one because of the very nature of work and the work that needs to be done. Toilets need to be cleaned, assembly lines need to be manned, and accounts need to be balanced. I suppose most people are able to strike a balance between work, what they do for money, and what they do for meaning? I am feeling this strong desire to combine the two by having my work be meaningful. A decade ago, for some mysterious reason, I did a dozen or so paintings, and then just stopped. Looking back, and seeing the paintings today, I see them as the best things I ever did in my life, which is depressing as hell. Do these few mediocre paintings represent the best things I have ever done after 48 years of living?

I don't know if I can go back to painting, if I can put in the hours and hours it takes to even start a particular piece, or if I can face the disappointment that comes from starting something then discovering I'm not ready to undertake it which happened in the past. Part of art is growing, and being willing to fail.

Ten years have gone by since I last completed anything, but somehow the idea of starting again is always in the back of my mind but the will to start again never conquers my laziness. I know I would have to do another 20 complete paintings before I even started to understand what I was doing. It would take me months to feel comfortable with a pallet and a few tubes of paint. I want to do it, but I know it would take a lot out of me. But then, I am not really doing much of anything with my life.

The things of which I am most proud are the things I never talk about because I am proud of them. Yes, they hang in my house and, OK I admit it, I admire them because they tell me I am capable of something that is a little better than mediocre. I know I am not a Picasso or a Manet, but I am a Bauer which is something.

And here is the thing, it doesn't really matter what anyone else thinks about what I am doing. I remember years ago I went out with a woman that was a painter. She lived in a studio apartment and had a mattress on one side of the room and the rest of the space was taken up by her paintings. The floor was covered by a large tarp. She had a stereo in there and some jazz albums. She was willing to dedicate her life to the production of her art, her vision of what art was. It doesn't even matter how good or bad it was, what mattered is that she was passionate about it, that she wasn't a hack, she was the artist working her day job, and painting at night. I wonder what happened to her. I wonder what happened to me.

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