Friday, June 20, 2003
WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE, Sex and Lies continued... Sunday, June 15, 2003
Work on the Dream House was over. Not that it was finished. We just stopped the improvements. It was livable. I spent much of my time painting in the garage/studio behind the house. I'm a physical painter. I didn't do "over the sofa" sized paintings. I liked to use my whole body, make big gestures when I worked. Since meeting Pete, sports themes were a focus. Confrontation describes how I felt every time I looked at a blank canvas. I had to make the figures lifesize to really get into the bodies. Painting for me was like sex. When it was best you'd be in the zone and be driven by the pure energy of the whole thing, surprising yourself with discoveries, and then collapse, exhausted, at the end. And, like sex sometimes does, that energy is transformed, it becomes a being with a life of its own.
My work was going well. It had been selected for exhibition in some major local competitions at the Danforth Museum and the Brocton Museum. A dealer with a gallery on Cape Cod wanted to add me to his roster. A dealer in New York contacted me. He had read a review and wanted to know if I could bring some paintings down for a new gallery he was opening on 57th street focusing on sports themes. I was a young unknown, he was willing to give me a chance, but would not pay for shipping the work to the gallery. So one Saturday morning, Pete and I loaded half a dozen of my monster sized paintings in the van. They barely fit, we had to leave the rear doors open but tied with rope. Off to New York. Man, was I excited. It's every artists dream to make it in NY. We get to 57th street and can't find a place to park. Pete drives around the block several times while I run up to the gallery (it's on the second floor) to see what they want me to do. The dealer runs out and manages to hold a parking space across the street, Pete pulls in and he and I start to unload. It was a great scene. Pete was pulling the paintings out, I had to prop them up against the building behind us. Passersby started looking and talking about the work. Wow! my first show in NY and I'm not even in a gallery. But they ignored me, went over to Pete and started complimenting him on his paintings. He seemed bewildered. I had to laugh. I was pleased. So they thought my work was good enough to have been done by a man.
Pete would help me when I called on him, but he had no idea what I was doing. We never talked about art. He just wanted to see me happy. Sometimes he would get a little resentful and refer to my "arty - farty friends". My activism with the Boston Visual Artists Union was continuing. We union members decided we needed our own gallery and started fundraising. We got a georgous space in Government Center donated by a major Boston realestate mogul. We did seminars for artists on copyright law, how to negotiate dealer contracts, and we campaigned against entry fees for competitions. Artists should not have to pay to get their work considered. It's tough enough, few artists make any money at all from their work. We managed to get entry fees banned in Boston. It was an exhilarating time to be an artist.
In one of our increasingly rare weekends at home together, Pete and I were sitting on the porch. He was sitting comfortably in a rocker with a beer in his hand. The kids were riding their bikes. He's musing, "this is heaven. I want to stay here forever and have our grand kids here." The lights go out in my brain. I know in that moment I can't do it. This is not the end for me. It is only the beginning.
Work on the Dream House was over. Not that it was finished. We just stopped the improvements. It was livable. I spent much of my time painting in the garage/studio behind the house. I'm a physical painter. I didn't do "over the sofa" sized paintings. I liked to use my whole body, make big gestures when I worked. Since meeting Pete, sports themes were a focus. Confrontation describes how I felt every time I looked at a blank canvas. I had to make the figures lifesize to really get into the bodies. Painting for me was like sex. When it was best you'd be in the zone and be driven by the pure energy of the whole thing, surprising yourself with discoveries, and then collapse, exhausted, at the end. And, like sex sometimes does, that energy is transformed, it becomes a being with a life of its own.
My work was going well. It had been selected for exhibition in some major local competitions at the Danforth Museum and the Brocton Museum. A dealer with a gallery on Cape Cod wanted to add me to his roster. A dealer in New York contacted me. He had read a review and wanted to know if I could bring some paintings down for a new gallery he was opening on 57th street focusing on sports themes. I was a young unknown, he was willing to give me a chance, but would not pay for shipping the work to the gallery. So one Saturday morning, Pete and I loaded half a dozen of my monster sized paintings in the van. They barely fit, we had to leave the rear doors open but tied with rope. Off to New York. Man, was I excited. It's every artists dream to make it in NY. We get to 57th street and can't find a place to park. Pete drives around the block several times while I run up to the gallery (it's on the second floor) to see what they want me to do. The dealer runs out and manages to hold a parking space across the street, Pete pulls in and he and I start to unload. It was a great scene. Pete was pulling the paintings out, I had to prop them up against the building behind us. Passersby started looking and talking about the work. Wow! my first show in NY and I'm not even in a gallery. But they ignored me, went over to Pete and started complimenting him on his paintings. He seemed bewildered. I had to laugh. I was pleased. So they thought my work was good enough to have been done by a man.
Pete would help me when I called on him, but he had no idea what I was doing. We never talked about art. He just wanted to see me happy. Sometimes he would get a little resentful and refer to my "arty - farty friends". My activism with the Boston Visual Artists Union was continuing. We union members decided we needed our own gallery and started fundraising. We got a georgous space in Government Center donated by a major Boston realestate mogul. We did seminars for artists on copyright law, how to negotiate dealer contracts, and we campaigned against entry fees for competitions. Artists should not have to pay to get their work considered. It's tough enough, few artists make any money at all from their work. We managed to get entry fees banned in Boston. It was an exhilarating time to be an artist.
In one of our increasingly rare weekends at home together, Pete and I were sitting on the porch. He was sitting comfortably in a rocker with a beer in his hand. The kids were riding their bikes. He's musing, "this is heaven. I want to stay here forever and have our grand kids here." The lights go out in my brain. I know in that moment I can't do it. This is not the end for me. It is only the beginning.
