The privilege of being a painter

Pinterest is my safe place when the news of the world gets too much, I go and hide out there and look at art.

A cascade of beauty and hope washes over me. Old, new, and so many unknown works, flood the electronic pages. I get a rush as I discover a new work or artist, but it doesn't stop there, they are connected by an algorithm designed to lead me to more. It feels like online gambling but with a much bigger payoff.

I click on a favourite Motherwell which in turn leads me to a colourful Kline that I have never seen which then takes me to an unknown Diebenkorn. As I work the site, it keeps peeling back yet another layer of these painter kings.

A coveted image of an anonymous yellow ochre and black midcentury abstract in situ finally gets named and then I am off down a rabbit hole to discover all I can about Conrad Marca-Relli.

I double back and look at the work of Hartigan, I read her words and thoughts, Mitchell and Frankenthaler too. These gutsy, tough women who just wanted to paint and be seen.

I receive an electric charge as I look at these collections, feeling fevered and excited. I look for secret messages, connections, and validation. I am comforted by the others that share this work and sweet affliction. I have never found being an artist easy or even smart. I have never completely trusted this calling, yet I have sacrificed so much for the privilege of being a painter.