This is called Galactica. It is one very weird painting, in keeping with my current skill set.
The most beautiful colors touched by my hand have wound up looking like something that’s gone through a grinder. I have thrown away an embarrassing amount of paint this week, and also some canvases in the height of my frustration.
My dad was an art hobbyist, and I saw very few of his pieces in his lifetime. He was not prone to showing them off, but more telling is that now and then he would find himself in a bad place and he would destroy much of his artwork.
I am not my dad, first because I don’t have the level of understanding or the degree of commitment that I think he had to art. He copied the masters which to me is a far cry from my chemistry experiments. But the other thing is, my dad suffered from mental health issues. The term “art therapy” hadn’t even been heard of in those days, but I have no doubt that art helped him keep his demons at bay. For a while, but sadly, not forever.
Tonight, something that used to make me scratch my head — that is, my dad trashing his own artwork — now seems understandable.
I am not my dad. I am not the art that I create, whether it be “good” or “bad” in my eyes or someone else’s. I don’t want to be an ARTIST….I don’t want to define or limit or judge myself by yet another label. I am grateful for what I have learned about myself through this hobby, even when what I learn is very humbling. It is, though, just a hobby. Breathe in, breathe out.
I still love the colors of our world. Just not too thrilled with what’s happening with them at my hands right now.
Growth is painful. Change is painful. But, nothing is as painful as staying stuck where you do not belong.N.R. Narayana Murthy