The Reluctant Collector

Although I wish my dynamic youth inspired me as an artist, caused me to cover canvases in cathartic screams of color, I have not as yet been so moved. Instead, that blue light has led me to friends, lovers, and husbands, who feel as deeply but are more blessed with talent than I. The companionship of artists is a wonderful thing. I appreciate their many moods, unique sense of time, flux between hedonism and lama-like restraint, cocky self-abandon and yearning for acceptance. I'd posed patiently for hours of sketches, and even as a rogue ant would traverse, I'd try not to laugh or flinch. I have been fortunate to receive everything from calligraphed French villanelles to oversized mixed media portraits as birthday and Christmas presents and (sometimes) loan payments. Because of my proximity, I took these gifts for granted. After years of living with art, I still enjoyed its presence, just as I would a neighbor dropping by with banana bread - but its emotional impact had definitely ebbed. (Outside of the heartfelt frustration that a certain artist had given his ex-girlfriend much more accomplished paintings than he'd given me!) I know it's cold… and how many times had I given poems to friends only to hear "oh." instead of "aah!"

Mostly, I'd attempted to make tangible some elements of those precious relationships in pen, just as they had done in paint; but sometimes, well, I was just poor and spent. I would write and they would paint, late on eves, long after malls had closed. After giving each other incredible work for the first round of occasions, we saved the best for strangers, hopefully buyers, and gifted the mediocre.

I lived with art I alternately loved, despised, and didn't think much about at all, but I was obliged to keep. Four years ago on a trip to Mendocino, California, my aesthetic sense was revived. I admit, everything looks better under the light between Napa Valley and the north coast - but while exploring galleries I found amazing jazz-themed ink-spattered watercolors by Catherine Woscow and the hyperbright realism of Gary Pruner. This was art I wanted to take home. Unfortunately, I had rekindled my desire, but not my resources. I drove back to Sacramento with an empty back seat.

Within a few weeks, I received another pencil work from a friend. It wasn't his piece however, but an impeccable drawing by Jerald Silva. I'd gone to an opening for Jerald's new bronzes, and was drawn to his realistic, beautiful interpretation of female form. Here was a work of art I would have chosen for myself: an irenic nude, with arms outstretching, timeless.

I have too-often said that good art shouldn't match the sofa, and though my present was not so designed, my house felt artistically inadequate after its arrival. In my own creative fit, I cut out all of the carpets and padding from the living room. I acid washed the floor and painted it scarlet. I replaced the lighting with three iron chandeliers, and severely rearranged the furniture. It finally looked, and felt, like home.

I miss the Silva piece that still lives in California. I still do not have much disposable income, but I am more inclined to spend it on original art. I crave Chad Hoffman's bluesy woodcut prints, the sweetly intimate black and white photography of Keri Pickett, the charming but surreal artist books crafted by Barbara Harman, the frenzy of color in beads, tiles, and platters from Potek Glass, and the list goes on…

As spring steals in, the change in nature's palette inspires me to expand my own. I will grab a trusty thermos and oversized sunglasses and skulk around local galleries looking for a fix. It's funny how you need to bring in part of stranger to make your house feel like home.