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THE STICK, OR WHY I AM AN ARTIST
My grandson, William, gave me a stick. I put the stick on a white porcelain plate in my studio and displayed it along with other treasures. One day, stunned by the crisp brown against the crisp porcelain, I made a watercolor painting of it on the back side of Arches 140 lb. cold press paper—I always use the backside of this paper because I like the texture better.
When William came to the studio I held up the painting for him to see. Thinking that I was showing him the stick on the paper, he quickly tried to catch it to keep it from falling to the floor. He was astonished to realize that the stick and shadows were painted on the paper. “Paint me a lot more of those, Grandma!” said William.
I consider this to be one of the finest, most joyful moments in my painting career. Awards, sales, and shows in great galleries are encouraging and satisfying: I absolutely love and appreciate these happenings.
When I'm privileged to experience another human being swept up by blots of paint on paper or canvas that I've made in my attempt to share what moved me, all is right with the world.
THE STICK, OR WHY I AM AN ARTIST
My grandson, William, gave me a stick. I put the stick on a white porcelain plate in my studio and displayed it along with other treasures. One day, stunned by the crisp brown against the crisp porcelain, I made a watercolor painting of it on the back side of Arches 140 lb. cold press paper—I always use the backside of this paper because I like the texture better.
When William came to the studio I held up the painting for him to see. Thinking that I was showing him the stick on the paper, he quickly tried to catch it to keep it from falling to the floor. He was astonished to realize that the stick and shadows were painted on the paper. “Paint me a lot more of those, Grandma!” said William.
I consider this to be one of the finest, most joyful moments in my painting career. Awards, sales, and shows in great galleries are encouraging and satisfying: I absolutely love and appreciate these happenings.
When I'm privileged to experience another human being swept up by blots of paint on paper or canvas that I've made in my attempt to share what moved me, all is right with the world.
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