57th street

The Queen Peony 7" x 9" oil on board

All paintings available for sale
linannemisja@gmail.com
airnlight@yahoo.com


Living in New York was a nourishing experience. I loved the vital, lively, teeming-with-brilliant-ideas New Yorkers. I seemed to just sync with the creative vivacity. I wanted it all to osmose into my being. The people of New York are wonderful. I remained in NYC for 12 years. One of my favorite memories remains the times classes finished up, and I had to return back to my apartment with a fresh painting in tow. I used to get a seat on the bus (when possible) and would turn the painting around subtly, so the bus riders around me could see it.



I told myself, they must think I have to turn it around so paint doesn't get on me, surely they don't suspect I want them to see it. Gah, it seems so dumb to me now. I remember wanting people to see my work. Any raising of the eyebrow was a little thrill. A comment was not really expected, but looks were enough.

Well, I guess it is natural to want people's reactions to your work.

Another fond memory, returning home from class: I was usually pretty well spattered with paint, in old jeans, hair a mess. If I felt like walking across 57th, instead of hopping the bus right away, I'd sometimes stop into the shops. I just loved the reaction I'd get going into the ever exclusive ones. The sales lady would eye me up and down, and haughtily ask me if she could help me. I wanted to tell her, "I am so much more than what you see here, lady. If only you knew, I am a painter. Ha, so there."

Proud to be a painter? Well, that's good I guess. Maybe I needed to think that way. Those times were so uncertain.

I did enter one gallery on 57th Street. I was told by friends I ought to have my work there. The gallery owner barely looked at my pieces and said, "Oh, honey, you're a dime a dozen." Thanks a lot. That stung. That comment remains with me, 20 some years later. I wanted to tell him, "But, but, I am in some very good galleries". Alas, I was tongue tied. One of the gallery owners who did take me on admonished that young painter one day. I thought I knew everything about the world of art, and I was arrogant- what with the comments from artist friends always swirling around my head about art that was no good. I actually critiqued the art that was hanging on the wall on the gallery who had just signed me on. He was aghast, but, kindly reminded me that the Lacks were only some of the best painters this country had ever seen. I never heard of any Lacks. I only thought the art was bad, and I made mention of it. The diplomacy with which I was gifted............sheesh. I somehow knew I had committed a gaff. Happily that gallery owner was more mature than I.

I used to walk with such an energy all along 57th. I sighed as I imagined the amazing music filling the chamber of Carnegie Hall across the street. I wondered often what it would be like to lunch at the Russian Tea Room. It was fun to catch visitors calling it The Carnegie Hall. Pssst, we just say Carnegie Hall. I paused, wondering about how hard it must have been to do the work of the Meter Maids (as we called them then). What a job, and then I'd think about those getting tickets, better feel worse for them. Meter Maids have a good job, these guys are going to have to pay a little ticket. Every time I would pass Calvary Baptist Church, I would be reminded of the story the Pastor told one time of a woman bending down to help a "street person" right in front of the church. She was wearing a fur. I know the story was a good one, although I don't remember the details, people helping those less unfortunate, but I always felt critical of it. I had such a visual image of the woman in the fur, helping the poor person. Maybe the woman was the one who needed help. Maybe. Maybe I was just resentful of someone who could wear expensive clothes. I was an artist, living in my size 7 faded, high rise jeans.

When it was a clear, beautful day, and I chose to walk most of the way home to the East Side, I loved watching people along my route. I wanted them to stop, and let me paint them. That desire to paint the human form would not become fulfilled until many years later. Not in the full way I wanted it to.

I concentrated on still life, mostly. I did paint the model at the ASL, but my passion was the still life. I adored the energized peace in a still life. I do yet today. I love the tranquilty one can capture of humble objects sitting nonchalantly on an antique pastel quilt, softened with the patina of age.

See above, Queen Peony