Oil on Canvas
I was going through old discs tonight and found a cache of paintings that have long since passed to others. This one struck a nerve – old friends, good times. And a looser style.
I don’t get in the studio much anymore. In my new job I get to be creative, and to also exercise my technical skills. I was hire to organize the shop, pick up trash, and to assist in the various departments.
Well, I am now in charge of the flatbed printing department. But that isn’t lasting too long, as they realized that I have many years of technical repair experience, and are now trusting me as the new repair technician for all of their printers.
Now these are not just any printers, they print on media up to ten feet wide and however long the media is.
Last night I was on site helping to install new cables and printer boards and print heads into one of the printers, a $150,000 behemoth that is not big enough or fast enough.
This morning I had to perform an emergency repair on the Scitex flatbed printer with items I purchased at he local Home Depot.
The company is growing faster than they imagined. I can’t be the repair person for the machines and also run the flatbed printing department. I am no longer allowed to collect the garbage – though I still do.
I am loving my new job. But I miss the studio. And looking back at some of the paintings that have long since passed through my hands, I long to get back to the creative spirit that allowed me to paint with abandon.
I wasn’t concerned with proportion or realism as much as I was with reality. What is reality? Reality is the moment – what you see, yes, but more, what you feel and experience. How does a painter express music? How do you share a night of drinking?
These paintings are now in other hands. I never kept great records – when a painting passed from my hands to another, I was grateful that they shared my experience. Something that I captured on canvas sparked an emotion in another. Maybe I was able to communicate a moment in time in the same manner that Hemingway did in the Sun Also Rises, or that Bukowski did in his poetry. Maybe they misunderstood my intent in the painting, and saw something completely different. Who knows?
Somehow they caught my emotions, and were touched. But the pint of impressionistic/expressionistic paintings os not to tell a story, but to share an emotional experience. There needn’t be a story behind it, no explanation. The explanation is in the painting itself. I try not to dissect my paintings, that is up to each individual viewer.