I used to have a painting years and years ago that I bought at some Goodwill store or another. I hadn't really bought too many painting up to that point, and doing my painting buying at Goodwill probably didn't put me in a positive light among my artist friends, but as more than one of those friends has beaten me over the head with during the years, "art is art, man."
I loved that painting. It was black and white and had this island vibe and Jamaican feel about it that put me completely in a zone of comfortableness and joy that was a bit hard for me to enter without the assistance. I must have been 21 or so years old when I bought that painting, and I'd stare at it for what seemed like hours at at time some days. I had plenty of spare times on my hands, depending on the day of the week, sitting in the tiny, run-down apartment I called home on the top floor of a three-story house. I had no television, computers were around then, and music was pretty much my only companion on my days off from work (Tuesdays and Wednesdays). Well, music and the paintings and photos that I hung on the walls of that apartment. That particular painting, though, was my favorite.
Most of the art I've gravitated to during my life has tended to lean toward the dark and gloomy side, not necessarily in a "I'm hear to glorify Satan's presence on Earth with this depiction of him cultivating souls" sort of way, but certainly in a Edvard Munch "Evening on Karl Johan" sense where the subjects of the piece don't appear all that thrilled with being alive, or at least appear to be struggling emotionally or spiritually to make their way from one day to another. I think "struggle" typified the way I was approaching life at that time; it was less about embracing the minutes as they presented themselves and more about surviving them. The sense of surviving, it seems, introduced itself to me early in life and never really wanted to leave. Work and toil, work and toil, work and toil. That summed up how life felt many days, starting very early on. And while that can definitely still be the case on any particularly day now, that feeling of "work and toil" isn't nearly as defining or as strong, and it definitely doesn't stick around nearly as long. I credit that painting I bought at the Goodwill for what must have been $10 tops in some ways to making me see the light.
I remember that painting had a spiffy, ornate frame that was painted gold. It perfectly complemented the black and white colors that the artist (I have no idea who he or she was) used to create the women that the painting featured. While they didn't quite reach caricature status, the women and their over-exaggerated smiles and too wide of eyes and amplified bosoms that were accentuated by skimpy island dresses sure came close. The overall effect caused me to daydream endless about meeting such women, about traveling to such islands, about finding a place among the locals, about finding a place was life was so joyful and simple.
I think about that painting often. I don't recall when or why I parted ways with it. I'm sure it wasn't for a good reason, but such has been the way of many things in my life--no good reason. But despite being physically absent, that painting lives on. Such as been the way of many things in my life.
I loved that painting. It was black and white and had this island vibe and Jamaican feel about it that put me completely in a zone of comfortableness and joy that was a bit hard for me to enter without the assistance. I must have been 21 or so years old when I bought that painting, and I'd stare at it for what seemed like hours at at time some days. I had plenty of spare times on my hands, depending on the day of the week, sitting in the tiny, run-down apartment I called home on the top floor of a three-story house. I had no television, computers were around then, and music was pretty much my only companion on my days off from work (Tuesdays and Wednesdays). Well, music and the paintings and photos that I hung on the walls of that apartment. That particular painting, though, was my favorite.
Most of the art I've gravitated to during my life has tended to lean toward the dark and gloomy side, not necessarily in a "I'm hear to glorify Satan's presence on Earth with this depiction of him cultivating souls" sort of way, but certainly in a Edvard Munch "Evening on Karl Johan" sense where the subjects of the piece don't appear all that thrilled with being alive, or at least appear to be struggling emotionally or spiritually to make their way from one day to another. I think "struggle" typified the way I was approaching life at that time; it was less about embracing the minutes as they presented themselves and more about surviving them. The sense of surviving, it seems, introduced itself to me early in life and never really wanted to leave. Work and toil, work and toil, work and toil. That summed up how life felt many days, starting very early on. And while that can definitely still be the case on any particularly day now, that feeling of "work and toil" isn't nearly as defining or as strong, and it definitely doesn't stick around nearly as long. I credit that painting I bought at the Goodwill for what must have been $10 tops in some ways to making me see the light.
I remember that painting had a spiffy, ornate frame that was painted gold. It perfectly complemented the black and white colors that the artist (I have no idea who he or she was) used to create the women that the painting featured. While they didn't quite reach caricature status, the women and their over-exaggerated smiles and too wide of eyes and amplified bosoms that were accentuated by skimpy island dresses sure came close. The overall effect caused me to daydream endless about meeting such women, about traveling to such islands, about finding a place among the locals, about finding a place was life was so joyful and simple.
I think about that painting often. I don't recall when or why I parted ways with it. I'm sure it wasn't for a good reason, but such has been the way of many things in my life--no good reason. But despite being physically absent, that painting lives on. Such as been the way of many things in my life.
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