...Then I went grocery shopping and then my dogs were completely ungrateful for their lives of luxury and then I stopped at the uber chic wine bar a block from my shoddy studio and then I had to explain to the sexy beard man that I was cooking Mexican food tonight and maybe that doesn't go with wine but I'm a bohemian so those rules really don't apply and what could he recommend that I wouldn't have to sell a tit for.
If you think you are a bad ass, calm, rational, put together, especialistically moral, tough, broad, real son of a gun, I'd like to see you paint a red onion.
I came back from an 'eh' vacation with job security on my mind and deadlines in my heart
Listening to a podcast about Van Gogh the other day I was struck by his letters. He wrote to every sibling. Theo the most, sharing the intimacy of his hospitalizations, the change of palette as he left the Dutch and met the French.
But, to his sister, he talked of the finite; single paintings to every last detail; hair color, complexion, the chair in the room.
Scholars ascribe his sensitivity to her lack of intelligence in the art of painting.
I know a lot of dumb people, this doesn't mean I only speak to them in color.
As a women and sister myself, I know all too well the sensitivity that comes with a man telephoning me and starting the conversation with, 'I've been blue..."
The next night i confessed sausage was on my cooking itinerary and walked out of my new dealers locally etched door with a French Bordeaux; crammed so far in my deep purse it felt nearly naughty.
At this point I'm days deep into a dark secret painting momentum, the antithesis of job security on my mind and deadlines in my heart.
That first Tempranillo led me down a path of peppers and lemons, darkly patterned gingham table spreads?
Then I drank the Bordeaux and was all, "Pomegranates and woven baskets are my point, from now until forever."
If I were to send my siblings a letter accounting the moves I make in my studio, each blueonthe brush, hypervescent yellows, they'd think I lost my mind. Between the two a text poem would ensue, rhyming my name with the only three words my name can be rhymed with, derision or not;
Gretchen is Wretched
Probably in the Kitchen
Fetchin' a reason to keep K'vetchin
I'm on a date with my husband and the featured wine is a French blend, I take this as a sign,order it immediately and rant about the asymmetry of red peppers.
His original text read that he felt he hadn't seen me in a week.
He thinks I'm depressed.
I can't tell because all I can see is the tableaux of silverware, salt shaker, fork and steak laid all in a row across his buttoned shirt horizon.
I return to the studio.
Lemons proliferate across the table settings I am now knee deep in.
I find this interesting as they are the only produce I tuck deep in a produce drawer.
Onions, potatoes, peppers, apples to oranges, garlic meats, they pile into bowls around my kitchen, spill all over the wood island.
WHAT DO LEMONS MEAN TO ME?
I am so sensitive to temperate citrus needs.
From what I have read, Van Gogh painted in lucidity. He was plagued by depression and illness. His body and mind went to seed during these times and he did not produce artwork. When he revived, his paintings were forceful, his choices purposeful, his letters detailed to the last drop.
Tonight I drink French again. The wine shop lady mentioned that I cook great food and buy great wine and she wished she could come to my home.
I just thought,
You have no idea,
I wanna go to that house too.
It is sausage, beans and greens and, Gretchen just brought home high end wine so let's make popcorn, kind of home.
You are all welcome here.
Today I worked on the empty walls behind each pile of peppers and carrots I've been fussing with.
Van Gogh was a portraitist by nature, as am I.
At one point he shared his tiny home with Gaugin for a month. Two artistic sardines under one roof. What happened?
Is this when he noticed a chair? Because when Vincent notices a chair, he really notices a chair.
We were leaving our California vacation, clearing out the sexy house four of us rented.
A Pink Lady Apple came up for debate, no one had eaten it, no one wanted to eat it, apparently the fruit basket was relegated simply to lemons.
I was walking down the FUCKED-UP-STEEP stairs when consensus rang down that PINK was trash.
Papayas, pickles, roses, baskets, vases, utensils, cabbage, peppers, citrus, salt shakers, peaches, apples
These make up Still Lifes
I am painting in this genre as the moment passes.
But I realize, there is nothing Still about a Life.