Artists sell paintings, naturally. That is how an artist makes a living. But, the work that goes into a painting –getting a piece just right – it isn’t an insignificant commitment. I know what happens to a piece of work after it’s been given so much time and love. It becomes something other than the work. It begins to take a life of its own (kind of). It becomes one of our kids.
Writing is a lot like painting in that regard. There’s a thing in your head, whether that is an idea, or a story, or an emotion. There is the ever-present threat of getting it wrong, of messing it up. There’s the crushing disappointment that accompanies failures, and there’s an immense gratitude at the victory (even if it’s a small, private celebration) of completing something that resembles what started as an intangible blob in our head.
And then, if all goes well, our kids are sent off into this world, to fend for themselves. This is the point where the paths for a writer and a painter part. A writer can always visit their kids. They’re lucky in that regard. But a painter, may only have pictures as a keepsake. The painting is sold, and handed over to its buyer. The painter, and the painting must part ways.
I can see how a painter would never want to sell their paintings. After devoting so much to a thing, how do you say goodbye forever? My friend Jen Lowinger is a painter. These are pictures of her and her lovely painting, Akai bara. (She has not yet had to bid farewell to this one.)
