In bare feet, wearing a pullover shirt stained with paint and a pair of tattered jeans, I pattered through the house to the studio, an enclosed garage dedicated to my art, and let the dogs outside. The house silent, my husband still asleep, I stopped in the kitchen and started the coffee pot, still not fully awake.
After returning to the studio, I began squeezing paint onto my palette, speaking the names of the paints as I opened them. Burnt sienna. Burnt umber. Raw sienna. Ultramarine blue. Chinese vermillion. Cadmium yellow. And some Cremnitz white. I whispered their names as if they were precious words of poetry. I had dreamed of colors during the night and was eager to put pick up a paintbrush. And I painted.
I’m known by some for my Narrative Art, paintings that tell stories, paintings based on the lives of my ancestors, myself, my family, my friends, based on my short stories and essays. But there is also another side to my painting. An expressionist abstract angle and an impressionist abstract side. I cannot limit myself to one style.
I was told I should stick to one style if I want to make it as an artist. It seems I don’t want to make it as an artist as much as I want to create, because I cannot remain in one lane.
Oil on canvas