Bitch on the Blog

June 18, 2017

Shades of white

I am no good at drawing. Which is rather surprising since I come from a long line of people who actually made their living painting.

My father who inherited that most remarkable talent – though never made anything of it because he was more interested in pursuing other interests, once helped me out. I was about twelve. Our art homework was to do a portrait of a pirate (water colours no less – the smudge’s devil of all inventions). We had a few days. The worse and the more dreaded the task the more it’ll spoil not only your life in the interim but you’ll put it off to the last minute (deadline by another name). (Un)fortunately my father passed my desk (Sunday afternoon) as I was putting the finishing touches to a half hearted attempt at conveying both the cliche and the menace of a pirate (Johnny Depp my creation wasn’t – it was before his time). So, in a moment of charitable (or was it) intent, my father chucked my effort into the nearest waste paper basket and conjured up the most magnificent pirate ever. Took him zero time – not that he meant to ram home that I most certainly had betrayed the creative family line (on both sides). Not at all. He was far more interested in taking all my essays and other writings apart – even if they rated A* by assorted teachers. You want to know what my father called my teachers? Don’t. Repeating it would be flying in the face of my genteel upbringing and the manners my mother instilled in me.

So Monday was grand. My art teacher’s face lit up. He studied my father’s effort in detail. He was chuffed. He smiled. At me. After an artfully executed theatrical pause  he said: “Do tell your father that, on account of fraud, I’ll only give him a two” (a one being top mark). After that I can’t remember anything. Other than that I was always tops in the theory of art and art history. Brush to canvas? Forget it. Why would I? Know thy limitations.

Not to sell myself short and as befits my temperament, I did and do passable caricatures (of people). That’s about it.

As Karma has a way of biting you unawares,  most nearest and dearest to me, friends and assorted family, are masters of their chosen art. Occasionally forced to remind them, ever so tactfully, we can’t all be artistes. Some of us have to be the appreciative audience. The ones who do the clapping, the stroking of ego, the catchers of tears, the slayers of tantrums, the ones who write the critiques, facilitate you, marketeer your stuff.  And, BUY IT.

Whatever you do, please do not talk to me about gallerists. It was Basel/Switzerland, ca. 1997, when I fell off my chair on learning that a gallerist (the marketeer and provider of large swathes of wall and the monied) will take a  cool 66 % off your sales for services rendered.

Titanium white greetings,

U

 

October 22, 2016

Effort

Filed under: Future,Pencil and Paper,Photography — bitchontheblog @ 18:38
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Thank you for your truly refreshing, and refreshingly honest, answers on the subject I last raised. Yes, affection and trust. The very foundations friendship is built on. From there we fly.

Today? Today I am contemplating the labour of love. Both Ramana and Shackman have had their (un)fair, true and hard share of it. Myself unencumbered, I think along seemingly ridiculous endeavours. Don’t laugh or do, say, archiving all (and ditching some) photos, in a coherent format. Say, condensing a lifetime’s cooking into notes useful to the Angel.

I am no Beethoven so my legacy will be largely with those who’ll remember me whilst still alive themselves. Before I drift off into my own la la land of thought on the futility of it all, let me say that I think there is no better labour than that borne out of love, be it for your children, humanity as a whole, indeed – dare I say it – yourself. In which spirit I’ll now go back to the washer woman’s ironing board. Give me a crease … I’ll try and smooth it.

You know something? If I were my own editor (and she is merciless) I’d scrap the whole of the above as so much sentimental indulgence. Still, one might argue, why not indulge some spur of the moment whim?

Any labour(s) of love, as yet to be accomplished, on your wishlist?

U

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