I've got too many paintings. My closet, living room and garage are full of paintings I will never hang or view. I've already donated a bunch to Goodwill. I suppose I could donate more.
These are excellent works, abstract renderings, most in oil, that will keep you staring for hours. Anyone can paint an apple or orange. I am painting the beginning of time, the ethos at creation. The fact that they look like squashed insects is irrelevant. The shapes and colors leave one breathless. Okay, sometimes a headache results, but it's a good type, the kind you get reading the great Russian authors.
I know I must separate myself from some of these. Space is at a minimum. If I had money I would buy a place large enough to house my brilliance. Critics do not know what they are missing. I pleaded with several to come review my work. Philistines. None want to cross the Hudson, leave the city, explore the world I've created.
Some people have pets; I have my paintings. Yes, you can hug a pet and not art, unless you want an undershirt full of color. Which brings me to the downside of this activity--my clothes are splattered with paint. I should don an apron, but when inspiration strikes all I want is to grab my brush and attack the canvas. Far too many shirts and pants have suffered in the process. It's called sacrificing for one's art.
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