Exactly how are we valuing our art?

Before I talk about how the Cedarburg Event wrapped up, what my results were, I want to tell you about a conversation that I had shortly after the event closed, which I am still contemplating, and my criteria for evaluating a painting.

Just prior to attending the artist post-event party thrown by the remarkably generous Shoenenberger home, I was congratulating the awarded artists whom I knew, which inevitably ended up in long conversations about art. The last of these involved my friends Brian and Bonnie, both of whom are more established artists than I, both of whom won awards.

We ended up discussing the judging of the event, and at one point I expressed an opinion that good paintings are good paintings because they rise to a standard that is recognizable. By this I also meant that there is a standard by which to evaluate the value of a painting, or towards which to strive for excellence, regardless of style. I did this while inwardly reasserting to myself that if my paintings were better, they would have been recognized and they would more likely have sold.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/jsonline/obituary.aspx?page=lifestory&pid=152146579

Ah, I feel like I’ve lost another father. Monday, it was a very black day. On this day, my mentor, my teacher, my friend, the man who inspired my passion for the tradition of painting, and taught me the difference between “of” and “about” and the rudiments of critical thinking on visual terms — Ron Bitticks, passed away.

“My vigil ended this evening at 7:15pm. After an heroic fight against an unruly disease, my father has passed, and there is a hole in my heart. I want to thank everyone for the kind words of support over the past few weeks. I am fortunate to have so many friends. I will be posting information on the services just as soon as we have them. The wake will be held at my studio.”

Anyone who has been following my blog will by now have noticed the span of time that has passed between this and my last post. Some of you who follow my posts on Facebook already know the reason for this, but for the rest, I would like to explain that on December 8th, my father died of cancer. The months leading up to that time was greatly stressful, and when his illness took a turn for the worse, everything stopped. Since then, my life has been greatly distracted by the aftermath, organizing his memorial service, making decisions about his funeral, handling matters at the house, and generally trying not to think about it during the holidays that immediately followed.

Awake at 3 AM

Awake at 3 AM and the clock
flashes the time to my conscience.
Toss and turn on the uneven bed
fix the covers, sheets and pillows
listen to the grinding of your neck
in blue midnite impatience
there is no grace in insomnia
only deadpan fatigue, a soul
leaking slowly from the corners of your eyes
I bounce my leg, for lack of a tail,
think happy thoughts, deepen
my breathing, pray for peace of mind,
for once, for a good night’s sleep
and find that this doesn’t work either.
The dog barking and that asshole
slams his car door again,
the furnace kicks in fits and blows air in,
the ticking clock is a pounding drum and
my neck is sore from the pillows.
I bury my thoughts in a basket of
dirty laundry, the room is a mess
and my life is no better
the light in the other room is still on
and the tape in my mind replays over and
over
and the time ticks by again at 3:30 AM.
I’m waiting for the music to begin
for the song sung by valkyrin and
choirs of angels, a heavenly lullaby
a kiss on the eyelids and softly tucked in.

© 2008 Anthony Sell

And I love you with your crooked teeth.

Your hand touches mine
we turn to face each other
on the pillow
looking down
your eyes dance darkly
through your lazy bangs
watching my hands
our fingers entwine
and the corners of your mouth
turn upward just slightly
I touch your hair
black as kitten fur, and as soft
the room, cast vermillion,
gold and apple green
dappled in sunlight,
my heart is a violet sponge
we kiss lightly and breathlessly
enter the same dream.

© 2.26.08 Anthony Sell

Labor Sons

And I dream
in those quiet times
of friends past
and faces lost
words spoken, or not,
of clasping hands
and weary eyes.

I dream of lovely agonies
and careless minutes
strewn, about
grinning stupidly
at the humdrum
of daily shuffle
and passing time.

Labor sons, we trusted
the clock, plodding
and plotting to overcome it,
the week, the day
the hour, the damned
Banker’s hour
and the shallow dollar.
The Butcher’s week.

Pockets pleading and
shoulders tight, the way
was to not-think
to think of anything
somewhere else
and bide, silently bide
we chewed our tasteless
food with the same
mechanical efficiency.

© 2.14.08 Anthony Sell

My Last Dollar

My last dollar walked out arm in arm with my last hope
for the month and my dignity.

Clint Eastwood’s bloody face is on the television
full of spite.
There is a woman on his arm who pretends that need is love.

The room is dark and there’s trash on the floor.
Someone has given up caring.
Someone should do something about that.

My soul aches for the things I should be doing
and my forehead pulses in time with the second hand of the clock.

Commercials and talking heads grab at my eyes
like rodents, or barefoot children, clamoring for attention.
I shut it off and sit disgusted.
My mood is black enough to dim the lamp.

Water that should be beer
slips past my tongue, grey and tasteless.
My lips are cracked.

The pressures of disbelief
repercussions of doubt
mold new patterns of behavior,
mistakes and poor choices.
I am no better than a piece of coal
full of potential, to burn, to shape
a diamond I will become, but not yet.
Now, I’m only a lump of dirt.

The man wanted me to respond, please.
To acknowledge his question
It’s good to want things.
The man wants me to be something else
and I want to smash his face for being what he is
and for being what I’m not.
No one gets what they want.

© 2007 Anthony Sell