When I was ten, we lived in South Carolina. Someone or some organization decided to put together an art exhibit in an empty house at or near the college where my father taught. Anyone could submit works, and I decided to paint something while watching my father go through his paintings to pick out one or more to show. I don’t remember if anyone else in my family contributed anything.
I always loved it when my father painted. Oil was his favorite medium, although he also used watercolors, inks, and pencil. I liked the wooden box that held his supplies and his wooden palette. I liked the smell of the oil paints, turpentine, linseed oil, and mineral spirits. During the time I was making my “work of art,” he was painting on these pressed wood panels salvaged from the back of a bookcase:
Easy to see whose technique influenced what I paint today, although I judge his work far superior to mine for many reasons. And at ten, I was much more literal. Here’s my painting that hung in the show (my mother, bless her, kept it framed and packed away all those years or I wouldn’t even remember it):
Please click here for work of staggering genius.