I think it must be everyone’s secret dream to be painted.
I know it was mine. Why is that? A narcissistic impulse to gaze at oneself, but better: to gaze at oneself beautified? I think so. But it’s something more, too.
The painter’s power is in suggesting significance belongs to the mundane.
The marvelous painter’s power is in suggesting beauty belongs to the mundane. Such is the gift of Josh Crow, the artist-in-residence here. With his brush or pencil, he twists lines and translates colors and animates that which I do not even see. A shirt’s folds become drapery of accidental elegance. A lamp becomes a thin figure with modelesque posture.
When Josh draws me at OAC in my daily routine—stirring a pot, typing on my computer—not only do I feel privileged (thrilled, actually) to be a subject captured: I’m also able to look at my day, rendered. Hours become series of brief and concentrated movements, stooped postures, focused faces. My water glass is prismatic and reading my email is, somehow, a poignant ritual. My days are displayed in silky colors and gentle shapes, right there, for me to wonder at. And they look splendid.
In a way, the writer’s objective is the same—to draw attention to the unattended. Words are no watercolors, though. I offered to write to about Josh while he painted me—an exchange of art, see; maybe a limerick for a sketch?—but somehow the trade seemed a tad tilted in my favor.
For good reason, I think.