I’ve always believed that we don’t travel far from what we already know when it comes to making our creative work. It’s been proven to me. In fact, I recently found, buried in our musty basement, covered with a thin layer of dust, a cut-out eagle that I painted in college (a long time ago). It is, in fact, my very first cut-edge painting! My current work is not so different from the work I made at the beginning — much about it has changed, but a lot of it is just the same.
I couldn’t fall asleep last night — my brain was swirling round and round with thoughts, and one was about my childhood home in Long Beach, New York. People ask me quite often who or what my painting influences are, and why I paint what I do; my answers are truthful based on what I’m aware of. For instance, I know my paintings are about fertility, sensuality, and an over-the-top beauty, but I’m not completely certain why I’m attracted to the Baroque/Rococo style to get my message across. The arabesque shapes I use are something I alluded to in my paintings and design work throughout the years, but why?
I’ve often had trouble recalling memories from my early past, but lately I’ve been able to access them more frequently. In fact, last night it occurred to me, while I couldn’t fall asleep, that the house I was brought up in for the first ten years of my life was decorated in a somewhat watered down style of Louis XIV. My father was a decorator and an upholsterer, and he worked in all kinds of homes back then, especially rich ones. He was given, or found, antique chairs and couches that he saved and reupholstered, and they ended up in our house. We had a green crushed velvet couch without any arms that had a soft ‘S’ curve. It was beautiful — perfect for a fainting baroness. Our curtains were silk and had swooping valences and tasseled shades that made the windows seem glorious. We had lovely detailed chairs, some with stiff cushioned backs, upholstered in beautiful fabrics. Our dining room had a mural painted on one wall, which wasn’t so common back then. It was the late 1960s and everyone was styling up to “modern,” but not my parents — I lived in a middle-class, quiet suburb, in a small ordinary house with parents that never went to college, yet the house was decorated, in parts, like a tiny palace. I’d stare at the mural for hours, wanting to walk inside the wall. It was a Greek/Roman scene of columns, gardens, and a pool. It was linear mostly, with washes, not heavily painted or filled in. Our dining room was small, but the furniture was ornate and elegant — well crafted, solid, real wood furniture! We had a chandelier in the dining room of tarnished gold and crystal. I’m picky about the chandeliers I like; most are poorly made copies that are too shiny or just plain ugly, but this one was truly elegant and beautiful.
Downstairs in the old, raw, musty basement, we had a small room called the “material room.” My father collected and saved the yards and bolts of unused fabrics from his work. He piled them in this tiny room so that over the years the scraps of fabric were like small mountains to a child (at least 3-4 feet high) and the bolts were stacked nearly to the ceiling. It was a great place to play, with one small light bulb in a dark, soft, mountainous room. I rolled, jumped, and laid there for hours playing with the fabrics and swallowed up in my own imagination. Some of the fabrics were probably quite old, in fact many may have been originals designed in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. So here I was, enveloped by brocades, swirly patterns, and Rococo style fabrics. They didn’t seem to mean much to me then, but is it any wonder that my paintings are now full of classical references and ornate gestures?
Our pasts have a lot to offer us, but I wasn’t aware that mine could answer some of my painting questions. In any case, now when people ask me why I paint what I do, I can confidently say that my work is steeped in my childhood experiences and influenced by my parents’ taste for the riches of an ornate, opulent past.
