When I was about 9, a small child in a Brooklyn apartment, I painted a small abstract on a panel, maybe 8x10. I remember still what it looked like. I dont know if I would hold it in high esteem now but I loved it then. I left it on an unused windowsill that night while I slept and as soon as I woke, I ran to look at it again but it wasnt there. Dad decided to move it and in doing so managed to put his fingers in the wet paint and smear it all over. It was not just inconsiderate, it was cruel. Mom said I could fix it but that was impossible and I dumped it in the trash. For decades, I didnt paint again except for a tiny portrait of my pug, Muggsy, when I was about 16 and with about 4 colors that I still had and which were still viable (barely). I have it and will post it tonight. Odd, that cruelty is still felt so very many years later.
Posted on: Tue, 16 Sep 2014 09:37:59 +0000
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