Someone who gets lost in a painting, who longs to stroke a sculpture, who wants to play with a construction, who follows a line until he gets lost.
Someone who feels pain when the paint stops singing, who cries for a lost line, who mourns missing texture, who’s embarased at overreaching that falls flat.
Someone who leaves the room when lectured to, who leaves the gallery when treacle starts dripping off the canvas, who leaves the city when art becomes a business & created only by people with masters degrees.
Someone who has a penchant for found art – but not trash, local art – but not stuff your kids could do…. international art that reminds me of that afternoon in Porto Fino just before the storm came up.
Someone who travels the world visiting artist studios, pleads with artists to leave high rent scenes like Manhattanan, convinces farmers who make monoliths out of art rocks… to continue.
Someone who loves art, artists, art lovers, gets high on line, gets smashed on color, edges when collages call, and has multiple mental orgasms when a group show truly gets off one on another.
Someone who knows we are human not machine, who ponders the monetization and MBAification of things that used to make us ponder, sit in wonder, and fall into silence.
Someone who simply sits with what someone has said, written, painted, sculpted, dramatized, danced, or sung and is grateful, a kid with a present, afraid yet eager to undo the wrapping, and rapt in playing with it all.