Monday, July 4, 2011
I have a notecard tacked to my bulletin board with one of Frida Kahlo's many self portraits. It's the one with pink, red , yellow and blue flowers surrounding her head. She looks pensive. Her artwork intrigues me, sometimes disturbs me and sometimes baffles me. Reading about her life can never really explain exactly what she was trying to say. Can we ever know what a piece of art means to the artist? Probably not. Whether you write a poem or brush paint onto a canvas, you are expressing a moment that is so fleeting, so ephemeral that you yourself may not be able to call it forth once it has passed. Right now beads seem to emerge from the clay without forethought. The colors combine in ways I cannot anticipate and I am happy with the results. Months or even years from now will I be able (or even want) to recreate today's work? Or will the work have evolved into a different animal altogether?