Monday, February 18, 2013

One Hundred Paintings Part XIII

Trying to think of clever witticisms for this week's paintings, but I got nothing. The printer is running a couple hundred catalogs and the smell of toner is giving me a pounding headache. Plus, it's Monday, which means absolutely nothing, seeing as things like time and days of the week are all made at the hands of men and they don't really exist (oh boy, whatever does that mean-- too much for a Monday morning?), but people use that as an excuse for things. SO... when in Rome or in this case--the elaborate fabrication we call "reality"-- do as the dreamers do. If you really want my opinion, I'd much rather endure a Monday than a thursday. Plus we have the "Monday Morning Meetings," which aren't as whimsical as the catchy alliteration might have you believe, but it does break up the day considerably. In conclusion that is why I'm not the least bit funny or heartfelt this morning (or so I lie), etc, etc, Here's a painting.

"Cold Shoulders"

Unfortunately the first two paintings you see here would not scan well. I always forget when I have large areas of "light colors" or white they tend to get blown out. I've done my best to color correct it and bring some of the information back but I will probably have to resort to using a good camera to reproduce it when the time comes.

Sometimes the weight of the world can make you a sad, cold bear... Or bearer.

"Stomping Ground for the Young Believers"

Again, a fairly ambiguous sort of painting to everyone but me and the truly analytical. One of those call it as you see it types. But I will leave you with this, "stomping ground" is a double entendre-- with both meanings being the subtle ones. Wink.

"The Box of You Is Bottomless"

This painting was actually based on a poem I wrote last year. A close friend and I started a weekly poetry club, since we both had a fondness for the written word and wanted to become better acquainted with creative writing. The amount of poems I walked away with that I didn't actually hate could be counted on a finger. You're looking at my visual interpretation of it. I'd like to post the poem with it, but I don't have it memorized and it's at home somewhere stuffed in some desk drawer. I like to think of my desk as an airplane or hotel. Overbooked and then they tell you once you get there that they can't fit you in. My ideas being the sad nobodies that have to wait for the next plane but are probably forgotten about. I have a lot of nobody thoughts in the dark precipice of my desk drawers (and mind, really) waiting to be rediscovered. By then I'll have grown a year older, a year wiser and think they are too naive, no doubt, and stuff them back in the drawer from whence they came and the end begets the beginning. I myself could go for being stuffed in a desk drawer right about now, nevertheless... I have no internet at home, ergo, I could not post this post from the comfort of my digs.

The poem was about losing a person (applicable to whatever form that may be) and being surrounded by their things, their life of possessions (or lack thereof in some instances) that made them who they were, and how those things can sometimes take on a life of their own and become that person. It's the reason collectors collect things and the reason sad girls burn boxes of their ex's mementos. It can be painful to hold onto and therapeutic to let it go--therapeutic to hold onto, and painful to let it go. In summation, I believe the last line of the poem is "The box of you is bottomless." Hence, hence and stuff.

Huzzah, yet another mile stone. I shake my own hand in congratulations. Now having completed 40 paintings and realizing I am almost  half way through the project. Whatever will I do when this project is over? Probably start the "Two Hundred Painting Project." Stay tuned--gonna be a doozy.