PORTRAITS; NOW WHAT?

I have people all over my house. Mad Sally hangs above the fireplace and the Fisherman's Wife stands on the floor below. Three odd looking men watch me brush my teeth, a rigidly correct Presbyterian sits in judgment of living room activity and Mario Cuomo in clown face is downstairs along side a native american indian lady swallowing the sun. These are all works by Upstate New York artists and while other paintings have come and gone through our various homes, I still find these pieces interesting, mysterious and funny.

Yesterday the UPS man delivered a big box with a portrait of my sister Gaynell. It is none of those things. Gaynell died when she was thirty three years old. Her husband commissioned this painting and now, after forty years, he's sent it to me.

So I've looked up some information and history of portraiture. I already knew that once, historically, painters were only allowed to paint the likeness of royalty or heavenly beings. In some cultures, self-likenesses are still considered bad luck and even the Bible warns of "graven images." Still, humans attempt to re-create themselves with a visual record of their life, to somehow leave an immortal record behind that reveals the truth about themselves, that says "remember me always."

The portrait of my sister is badly painted. Paint is flaking and it looks nothing like her. It doesn't make me remember her kindly, with love. It only makes me feel sad.

So now what? What do I do with this thing? Why does it always feel wrong to destroy a work of art even if it's bad? I can't begin to tell you how many times people call me with the question: "we're downsizing....moving....my parent died and left me...." with the climax "what do I do with this ....painting/print/sculpture?" Face facts. Most of the art we accumulate has very little value to anybody else. Few of us are lucky enough to have picked up that Picasso for a few dollars in a garage sale that everybody else overlooked.

So I repeat the list of possible solutions that usually start and end with "donation." But the real question is : where is the graveyard for unwanted artwork?

Robert Marx , One season ends, another begins

An unexpected August draught sent my gardens into a strange plant purgatory. Color faded, leaves sagged or browned off and ferns simply turned toes up in early surrender. All I could do was pray "Oh Lord, either send rain, send cold or get me out of here!" Obviously, I could have dragged out watering cans and hoses - a bad political choice what with the environment and all.

These are the same gardens that soaked up so much of our resources over the past five years and after such a robust growing season, we hoped for better - one of those swaggering, black eyed Susan summers that melt into frosty nights and smokey clouds of red and orange maples and sumacs. I feel cheated and wonder "Is this what old age is like?"

I had a conversation with my doctor who asked if something was bothering me and I said "No one thing. I'm cosmically depressed." She said "Here, take these. You need a little teflon." So I did (I have really good health insurance.) Now I can almost endure this chapter but I wonder if a season of swagger will ever return.

There must be a "...but" in this scenario and sure enough! There they are! Ornamental grasses that I planted just a year or two ago and they are magnificent - cocky sure of themselves, not to be ignored and I say "o.k. then! Let's get on with this dance."

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Robert Marx has the enviable ability that convinces you - when you meet him - that you are the very person he's been waiting for days to see and HERE YOU ARE! The man who once was lanky has settled comfortably into his skeleton in old age and appears to observe world events and the silliness of humanity with thoughtful concern tinged with satire.

I bought this Marx etching in 1979 at Gallery 696. I'm trying very hard these to days to rise above and away from ownership of objects but last night, Chip and I committed

all our gift-giving dollars for the next several years toward the purchase of this oil painting. Was that back-sliding or an act of optimism? I need to think about this.