ALWAYS KNOW WHERE THE MISTLETOE IS LOCATED.
Hugs and Kisses, 2022, oil on canvas, 18” x 24”
Holiday Party Advice, Tip #1
NEVER LEAVE YOUR COFFEE CUP UNATTENDED.
The Kiss, 1997, casein on masonite, 15-1/2” x 18-3/8”
Narcissus and Echo
I was bopping through the lobby of a local art building when I bumped into a ruggedly-handsome man I used to know. I haven’t seen that guy in years. I think he moved to the suburbs or something. He's a painter (a good one) and I respect his opinion a lot.
"Hey, Nancy," he said. "I loved your show at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts."
"Cool." That show happened many years ago but I still hear a lot about it.
"That was a great show," he said. "Almost every painting in that show was a masterpiece."
"Thanks."
"There's one big problem with your art, though," he said. "There's too much of you in the paintings."
"That's kind of the point," I said. "Putting myself in the paintings."
"But you could make big bucks as an illustrator if you took yourself out of your paintings."
"Other people have told me that too," I said. "You might be right."
He aimed his big, gorgeous grin in my direction. "So, do you plan to follow my advice?"
"No," I said. "But thanks anyway. It's very good advice."
And I meant it. It's very good advice.
***********************************************************************
Image pictured: Nobody Understands Me the Way That You Do, 2014, oil on canvas, 18” x 24”
A version of this blog post appeared on August 28, 2015.
I Think I Need Better Window Screens
I think I need better window screens. I found these guys crawling around on my worktable this morning. I think they’re Winged Empaths, a species of Business Moths.
There Will Be A Brief Interruption of Service
Nancy Robinson’s Blog will be on hiatus until October. We apologize for any inconvenience.
Nancy Robinson, Vacation Shoe, circa 1991, mixed media sculpture, size 8-1/2
The Last Laugh
I love reading the essays in art show catalogues almost as much as I enjoy looking at the pictures. When I say “essays,” I don’t mean the Artist Statements, which (I would hope, anyway) are written by the artists themselves. I mean essays by art critics who’ve been paid (literally or theoretically) to say a nice word about the artist(s) displayed in the brochure.
The author of one of my favorite essays is an art critic whose name evades me. The show which generated the catalogue happened many years ago, possibly during the last century. All I remember about the art critic is that they had short, dark hair and lived in New York City. The catalogue featured an energetic abstract painter whose name I’ve also forgotten. The catalogue impressed me enough to purchase one, but I lost it sometime in the early 2000s, when life kept throwing me sucker punches and I moved my home and studio so frequently, I misplaced a lot of my stuff.
What I especially liked about the catalogue, aside from the gorgeous artwork, was the art critic’s proclamation that “Artists always have the last laugh.” I clung to that axiom throughout many sinking-heart moments. Whenever things got especially tough for me, I’d conjure up the voice of that New York art critic and use it to cheer myself on.
At one point during my early-aught misadventures, I escaped to New York City for a business trip. I had some art in a show in Chelsea and spent my time bopping around Manhattan, trying to drum up excitement about my paintings. Eventually I took a break and went to the Museum of Modern Art, which was about to be remodeled. I wanted to take one more look at the place before they ravished it. Standing in line at the front entrance, I overheard a conversation between two women about how one of them was about to be kicked out of her apartment.
“They’re turning the building into condos,” she said, “and I don’t have the money to buy my place.”
As I listened to them talk, I realized the woman was the art critic from the catalogue, and that she also worked as an artist when not writing art criticism. Her friend expressed sympathy because as everyone knows, it’s hard to find decent, affordable housing in Manhattan. The about-to-be homeless woman’s distress seeped into my consciousness because I too struggled at the time with finding an affordable place to live and work as an artist.
“Excuse me,” I said, leaning forward. “I’m dealing with a similar problem in Minneapolis, and one thing that gets me through is your comment that artists always have the last laugh.”
“I said that?” the art critic/artist said.
“Yes, in a catalogue for an art show. You wrote a wonderful essay.”
The art critic/artist brightened. “That’s right! I did say that! Artists DO always have the last laugh.”
Just then we got to the head of the line, bought our exhibition tickets, and parted ways.
I never saw her again, and I have no idea how she resolved her apartment issue, but I still treasure The Last Laugh. It’s one of my most valuable possessions.
Image pictured: Nancy Robinson laughing in her studio