Art and goodbyes

Yesterday I dug into some old portfolios and boxes full of my art. It is quite amazing how much I have saved over the years. It appears nothing was thrown away. The record of my creations include everything from early pencil sketches resembling paleolithic scrawls to slick, computerized renderings from the last decade. My creative hand evidently has a link to my artist hoarding brain. Some of what I found is just ridiculous: Half finished pencil renderings of some Victorian building in Key West....... ruined cartoons with ink splots....... bad paintings I did in high school that would embarrass the best of any white trash flea market sale. You can trace my artistic evolution from about 1959 on.

Over the years I have found it increasingly easy to get rid of more and more things. Simplifying my existence has become more of a priority. Letting go of my art has been much harder. I don't know what it is. It's like giving away one of my organs. I become fiercely possessive. These were expressions of my brain. Releasing them causes a certain pain. However, having your tonsils taken out hurts and we don't really need them either. I guess I need to have an appendicitis attack purging of some old art filled revelations.

When I used to have a lot of shows there was a part of me that kind of hoped certain pieces wouldn't sell. It was as if I was hawking off the best of my children. Of course, after a framed whatever was gone, I was usually fine with it. It is just the process of releasing a piece into the unknown that is unsettling. If I do allow the throwing away of certain pieces; I just want to know that its demise is a comfortable and painless experience. It would also be nice if the garbage man gets a glimpse and admires my efforts one last time.

Of course, this all comes down to ego. An artist always hopes that he or she will become famous. Saving even the most trivial creation could be worth something for the collector. Posterity calls for a complete collection of the artist's every, scattered thought funneled into a pencil's mark or a paintbrush. It is a silly notion, for sure, but I am not alone. Most artists are just like me. We think we are more significant than reality suggests. We want that 1966 charcoal drawing of a horse with poorly proportioned legs to be available for exhibition when the lifetime perspective is unveiled on our 85th birthday. The rendering somehow showed an altered and inspired perspective of the brilliance to come. Wait. No it didn't. It was just a bad drawing of a horse with short, oddly muscled legs. No matter. It goes into the box and there may be a distant great nephew who may desire it at a later time.

The truth is, I AM going to toss some stuff this time around. As I go through and make good and bad piles, there will be tiny, private exhibitions for Raphael. This will help in legitimizing my keeping so much for so long and one last look can occur. It won't be just me in my single, pathetic observations of my artistic contributions. He and I already had one last night right before bed. He seemed to enjoy the show. He fell asleep immediately when I finished. Either my creations relaxed him or worked as an anesthetic. The cheap red wine in plastic glasses and finger sandwiches might have been too much.

My best find so far is a satiric treatment involving a few pages of International Male catalogue. I almost got the drawings published in a national magazine. About the time it was to happen, my art editor contact got fired. The story of my life. Maybe I should resend it along with my sketched out conception of a ski resort/ discotheque/ condo complex from 1971? There may be that one person who really gets the genius of my inspired vision. However, only a photocopy can be sent. I MUST keep the original.