True Colors

The clouds broke late in the afternoon on the day of the winter solstice. I was reading and became aware of a cast of light, not yellow, not pink, not orange exactly, but so different that I went out back to see what the sky was doing. So spectacular that a neighbor and his father were already standing outside, taking in the show.

For the next 15 minutes or so, the sky—I have trotted out spectacular but onward—offered a display so fantastical, so extraordinary, so awe-provoking, that were I of the weeping stuff, I would have wept. And wept even more for painters.

With sunsets, the orangey-pinkish-yellowy stuff wows us. Most of us, I think. For me, it’s the blues. Varying shades of blue created as backdrop to the light and shadows, the vivid colors, the dimming sun. And in those blues, I think of the painters I know should they take on such skies. Good luck, my friends.

Over the years, family and friends have given me prints of various sorts—a Wyeth, European posters, sailboats, bridges, trees, more sailboats. I rarely buy a print for myself.

I did add one piece (also a gift) to my wall of student art—former students, former—this year.

When I am at my desk as I am now, the viewing angle is acute, about 15 degrees. The effect is to give more depth to the terrain, the clouds, a dimensionality that fools and charms my eye. The rock that dominates the lower part of the frame seems ready to burst through the glass.

What I originally responded to when I saw this piece was several-fold. One, bold strokes, and two, the smallness of the fisherman measured against the scale of the world. Seems about right to me.

And, the blues. How many times I have seen lakes or the sea, and the sky, show me a range of blues that justs, justs—shuts me up.

This painting with its blues shut me up, too. But less now about color, more about buying via auction.

David Hockney’s Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures)…. Sold! For $80 million, a record for a living artist.

Eighty million. Of course, I know it’s an original, the only one ever in 1972 and still the only one in 2018. The painting sold for $18-grand back in the day, and adjusted for inflation, of course would be sold at a higher price today—around $108,000. But, the piece went for $80 million, and another $10 million in fees.

By the way, Hockney realized not a penny. Heck, after he sold it the first time (minus fees), someone bought it again within 6 months for $50,000.

At this point, I need to step lightly along the path of moral self-righteousness. Certainly, I could share more with family and friends and those with needs much more essential than I ever experience. Clearly, I have put my price tag on a particular kind of pleasure in choosing The Fisherman.

For all I know, the new owner of the Hockney donates a billion dollars in charity every year. Besides, no statutes compel generosity. And free markets, don’t you know.

But.

Eighty million.