I wonder if an art book called The Pandemic Painting Chronicles would sell, assuming we go back to writing and selling books.
The painting I finished today borrows from Matisse, and my memory of our granddaughter’s first pet, Fin the fish, which liked to jump out of his habitat, a glass bowl.
Many days recently, I can identify with ol’ Fin. But making any sudden moves anywhere is not wise for me . . .
So, today, instead of a predatory fishing kitty, I imagined one who patiently waited to pounce on their good fortune.
I call it The Vigilant Angler, in honor of my favorite fisherman.
In a lot of ways, that leaping goldfish reminds me of the early days of my misspent youth. But those recollections are for a different chronicle.
By the way, I bought a linen-lined basket to hold the expanding collections of small canvases. That way if anyone wants another impromptu art show, I can just whisk out my “portfolio,” lay them on the growing grass, and easily collect and return them inside.
Truth be told, I am running out of spaces to arrange them, and I am not ready to consign them to the basement.
After the first brush-stroke, the canvas assumes a life of its own; at this point, you become both governor and spectator to your own event. (Anonymous)
I think my “event” may becoming a circus.
Art is our memory of love. The most an artist can do through their work is say, let me show you what I have seen, what I have loved, and perhaps you will see it and love it too. (Annie Bevan)