Same Paintings, Different Walls

Last night I had something called a vernissage, or art opening, at a gallery space in a cinema near Montparnasse (see my website for details of the show). Vernissage means, literally, varnishing, which is what painters in the past were purported to be doing right before their work was shown in public. I'm exhibiting with five other artists in the space and, from a purely upper respiratory perspective, I was grateful that none of us were doing any varnishing at the last minute.

A funny thing happened on the way to the hanging (of the paintings, that is). I've been living with these paintings on my walls for months (the egg basket and the apple, that is), and I suddenly didn't want to part with them (is it possible to have separation anxiety from a painting?). It was a strange feeling to take them down and put them in a taxi to go across town and hang them in another place. My walls looked sad and empty without them, and I realized how attached I'd grown to these colors and images. They'd become as integral to my daily life as, say, the refrigerator. I immediately promised myself that I would paint some large colorful paintings right away to fill the spaces they left. But I know it won't be the same.

(OK, they'll only be gone for a week and a half. But that's a long time in artist years!)

(p.s. I know the lighting looks atrocious - it was actually better than it looks in the photo, which is not great - my excuse is that i was trying to take the pic while juggling a phone, a guest book, a conversation, and a plastic cupful of wine.)