Birthing Pains

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Art is not the application of a canon of beauty but what the instinct and the brain can conceive beyond any canon. When we love a woman we don’t start measuring her limbs. ~ Pablo Picasso (1881–1973), Spanish artist

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Letting Go

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The moment one of my paintings leaves, as because it has been declared sold, to me it is both triumph and some kind of loss.

Triumph because someone or a couple found pleasure in the work and decided to grow old with it. It will surely brighten up someone’s day or rekindle someone’s memory of earlier days for the rest of his life.

Loss, that feeling, on the other hand, I cannot deny. Not only for its literal meaning of feeling disadvantaged by actually losing a work from my company, my sight — my works have been like children to me; but also because, and yes, since it has grown with me (as perhaps, I with it), the relationship had to be short-circuited or short-lived, that I consciously will feel a longing to see it on the same spot I remembered leaving or seeing it last night or just an hour ago.

It is a passing sensation, yes, and as days go by, the feeling will get fainter and fainter until it will have completely faded. All that time, it will have no equivalent replacement. The new ones coming, evolving have definitely their own places in my heart.

But that’s just me.