Paint Yourself

Every summer I fall in love with female lead singers, running until my legs are numb, and art.

Mostly painting.

I spent our Day for Fallen Soldiers looking at the ungodly (or godly, depending on the source) artistic production of fallen artists, at the Chicago Art Institutes’ new Modern Wing, conceptualized architecturally by a man named Renzo Piano, who I honestly don’t know a lot about except for his really incredible job on this particular building.  I mean, it’s absolutely gorgeous.  He calls the steel roof a ‘flying carpet’; and the description makes a ton of sense.

Don’t go for the building though.

Go for the Picasso’s, the Pollack’s, and the Kandinsky’s.  The Hockney’s, the de Koonings, the Richter’s.

Ugh.

I love paint.

And Chicago’s art collections.

My absolutely favorite is the piece they have from Pollack that’s about twelve months older than Pollack’s famous splatter phase.  I don’t remember the name, but the piece is one of his first that was set on the ground and attacked from all sides.

And you can tell, and you can see his urgency, as if something about him knew he was close as hell to the next big thing.  The thing that people would respond to.  The thing that would make him Pollack.

You know that feeling.

That moment when you feel yourself slipping down a new thread of being and what lies on the other end may be what you were looking for all along.

Sure, you may not be a world reknowned artist,

but neither were some of those men

during their time.

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