It's a feeling that comes over me every time I open the door to my old bedroom. An uncomforting vive of happy and sad times spent in this room that no longer is mine, but then again it is. As I walk in, every holiday or special family gathering, I drop my bag and look around to see my work leaning against the walls of this bare room. Like abandoned children they stand facing me, looking for attention and wondering why I left them.
It's impossible that these canvases actually talk and have a personality, I know that. It's a mental trick that is triggered by my guilt. Why do I feel this way? Why do I have this guilt, and guilt for what? This is something I have never been able to explain. But it's always there like thick air engulfing me every time I walk into this room. I'm not sure how it is with other artists, but I develop a close connection to my paintings. I call them my babies, and not just as a term of endearment but as something more literal since I feel that I gave birth to them. Maybe I'm nuts but that's the honest truth. Is this close connection that makes me feel like crap when I see my most exiting work abandoned, collecting dust and cob webs.
I run my hands on the back and front of as many paintings as I can. As sick as this may sound, touching them is a way of letting them now that I still have love for them and that I haven't forgotten them. Every painting in this room is special. They were all painted during a period in my life when turmoil reigned supreme and a brush against a canvas was my escapeism. These colorful canvases were hopes of better things to come and they were my main reason for pushing forward. I always look back at that time with fondness, as hard as it may have been I'm thankful for it since it has shaped me into who I am today.
As I leave this old room I look back before closing the door and promise them that no matter where I go I still think of them as the best, and that one day I'll come back for them.
It's a feeling that comes over me every time I open the door to my old bedroom. An uncomforting vive of happy and sad times spent in this room that no longer is mine, but then again it is. As I walk in, every holiday or special family gathering, I drop my bag and look around to see my work leaning against the walls of this bare room. Like abandoned children they stand facing me, looking for attention and wondering why I left them.
It's impossible that these canvases actually talk and have a personality, I know that. It's a mental trick that is triggered by my guilt. Why do I feel this way? Why do I have this guilt, and guilt for what? This is something I have never been able to explain. But it's always there like thick air engulfing me every time I walk into this room. I'm not sure how it is with other artists, but I develop a close connection to my paintings. I call them my babies, and not just as a term of endearment but as something more literal since I feel that I gave birth to them. Maybe I'm nuts but that's the honest truth. Is this close connection that makes me feel like crap when I see my most exiting work abandoned, collecting dust and cob webs.
I run my hands on the back and front of as many paintings as I can. As sick as this may sound, touching them is a way of letting them now that I still have love for them and that I haven't forgotten them. Every painting in this room is special. They were all painted during a period in my life when turmoil reigned supreme and a brush against a canvas was my escapeism. These colorful canvases were hopes of better things to come and they were my main reason for pushing forward. I always look back at that time with fondness, as hard as it may have been I'm thankful for it since it has shaped me into who I am today.
As I leave this old room I look back before closing the door and promise them that no matter where I go I still think of them as the best, and that one day I'll come back for them.
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