I made this small painting today for a lovely young couple who got married in June—it’s personalized with their initials in the vase. I think it’s rather cheery, like they are. I love the velvety appearance of gouache and the flatness. Flat colors are really useful for the kind of bold imagery I’m using at the moment.
Earlier in the summer I thought I’d lost my paints. I was just on the cusp of setting out to buy new ones, at vast expense, when I stumbled upon them on a table in the basement. While they were lost I really missed them even though I don’t use them all that much. They’re a part of me, like old friends. A new set wouldn’t have been the same.
Once I get the paints out ideas begin to flow. The best is to just jump on an idea and go with it, without hesitation. Too much thinking kills art.
Speaking of which—last night, Dear A and I put on the Rolling Stones’ Beggar’s Banquet CD after dinner. We’d been talking about Mick Jagger’s voice, whether it was limited like Dylan’s or whether it was actually incredibly versatile. Dear A, who is usually right about most things, was adamant about the latter, I was putting up my usual fruitless objections which I’m fairly good at. We listened to the whole thing sitting at the kitchen table, beating our hands on the table, singing, and topping up our wine glasses mid-way. Mick’s voice is versatile all right but it’s the way he bends it that makes him the fantastic, fab one—he’s got Muddy Waters, Dylan, Leadbelly, Pete Seeger. He just uses them.
Salt of the Earth was the last song and Dear A choked up. He rarely cries(British)—the first time I saw him well up was at King Lear, then when his father died and, yes, last night listening to Mick. That’s what real art can do. And it’s real even though Mick steals like crazy. Stealing is okay in art when it’s for a purpose. The great, great thing about Mick is that he wasn’t shy about it. He latched onto what he was into and rode it all the way into the stratosphere. The stylist’s stylist. Real style’s all about the truth—and the truth is tough, baby.
Somewhere in the middle of Salt of the Earth, just after I’d set my wine glass down for the last time, I said I wished I could make art like that. Dear A dabbed his eyes, looked over and smirked. ‘But, my dear,’ he said, ‘you are not about desolation.’
Well, I could be. Maybe. Why am I trying to keep it light? It’s what I latched onto, way back, and I’m riding it—somewhere.
Taking a hint from Mick—I’m sticking with it but after last night will be amping up the volume. Why be shy?
