Forty-four years, we are still friends, although I moved away, she went to work for a bank, and we lost touch. However, over the years, Mary managed to accumulate a storage attic full of junk, some of which was art I had made in the 1970s when I still believed I could make a career of making art. Mary believed in me whenever my enthusiasm flagged. We spent many hours in my parents' basement building picture frames to nail around my brightly colored impasto acrylic-covered canvases with the intention of selling the paintings at the Saturday Market, a gathering of craftspeople and artists displaying their wares under tents and awnings haphazardly erected in an open parking lot, come rain or shine. I rewarded Mary's devotion to my art with art, which she apparently stored in her attic.
Her email message last week was something like this: It's been too long, let's get together, I have some of your art to share with you. Yes, she used the words "share with you." Immediately I recognized the code for Please come take your stuff back. I replied affirmatively, we set a time, and I drove over to her house in northeast Portland, expecting to take back the two paintings she paid $50.00 for back in 1974.
I walked into a chaotic scene. Her living room looked like a thrift store. Every surface held junk. The couch was obscured by artwork of various sizes and shapes, not all of which was mine, I was relieved to see. Mary gestured at a stack of paintings I had not seen since high school and early college.
“I had no idea you had so much of my artwork!” I exclaimed, thinking to myself, do I owe her forty years' worth of storage fees?
“I'd like to keep these two,” she said, pointing out two small painterly paintings, one of a stream coming down a hillside and the other of a beat-up wagon in an overgrown field. I pondered both pictures, not remembering either one. Certainly I had no recollection of painting them, but my signature was on both, so there is reality for you.
“Keep what you want,” I replied generously, thinking to myself, will all this crap fit in the trunk of my car? I saw some drawings I'd done while in fashion school (yes, I went one year to fashion school, you would never know by looking at me). “Just let me take some photos of them.”
I used my fancy new smartphone to take photos of the two little paintings. Then I gathered up an armload of the paintings and drawings she no longer wanted and hauled it all out to my car.
Was I ever so naive that I believed I could make a life for myself as a painter? Apparently so. I was in art school, everyone I knew was a painter, so I painted. We all painted, constantly. That first year of art school I produced scores of paintings. Most of them are lost to history. Maybe they hang on walls in houses somewhere. Maybe they clutter up attics and basements. I don't know. I wish now I had not been so prolific. At night I dream of the paintings stored in my own basement (well, my landlord's basement), the cast-offs of my mother and now my friend Mary. I wonder, how do people get rid of art? I don't mean, how do they haul the junk to the dump? I mean, how can they bring themselves to part with art that others have made? I don't mean crafts that disintegrate into plaster dust or knick-knacks made of construction paper and pipe cleaners. I mean authentic art, made by authentic artists seeking to express themselves through visual media. I have art from people I knew in college, people I knew in Los Angeles. Would I call them and ask them to take their work back, I don't want it anymore? No, never, not in a million years.
But now, after downsizing my mother into assisted living, I know that we don't take anything with us. Nothing last forever, not people, not stuff, not art. Art used to be made of organic materials; art used to decay. Modern humans make too much stuff, and none of it decays. There is no room for all this stuff. My old paintings are junk now, trash, stuff nobody wants. And because the paintings are largely made of acrylic paint, they will never decay, they will never turn to compost to help grow the next garden. I thought I was making art, but what I really made was pollution.
Never again, people.
