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self-portrait in words (first attempt) I am a painter. I am not sure words are my medium. Here is an attempt anyway. colors Payne's gray, because it is the city at six in the morning, and most of my moods. Burnt sienna, the color of my father's hands, or I would like to think so. Cadmium red, used sparingly, like the truth. Ultramarine, which was once ground from lapis and cost more than gold. Titanium white, which is most of what I do, and which you almost cannot see. I know how that sounds. the studio Fourth floor, East Village, no elevator. Painters say "north light." The truth is an airshaft. Turpentine, coffee, a radiator that knocks like someone who wants to come in. The canvases lean with their faces to the wall, as if they are shy. They are right to be. the first show 1982. A storefront on East 10th Street that had been a laundromat. You could still see where the dryers stood. Eleven paintings. I sold one, to my aunt Ruth. A review called me "promising." I have been promising for seventeen years. my father's shop He was a tailor on Orchard Street for forty years. Pins in his mouth. A yellow tape around his neck like a scarf. He drew on the wool with a flat cake of chalk, cut along the drawing, and brushed the chalk away. Then there was a coat. He never once said the word "art." He said: a bad seam you do not patch. You take it out and you sew it again. Everything I know about painting is in that sentence. why I paint over things Because the first thing I say is almost never true. Because every canvas in this room has three or four paintings sleeping under it. When an old one shows through, there is a word for it: pentimento. It comes from the Italian for repenting. I like a painting that admits it changed its mind. I would like to be more like that. My sister read this page and said, "Nadia, just say you like blue." Fine. I like blue. [email protected], if you want to answer. You are the person to stand in front of this. Last updated September 12, 1999. Painted over since. |