N.P Joni Mitchell – Both Sides Now
I know people think collecting art is bourgeoisie, but I see beauty and so much beauty. Art is beautiful and when you support an artist you empower them. People collect music, which is vocal art and no one thinks of it as a white/ suburban/ bougie thing to do. People collect pictures, another form of art, and no one even dares to ask, “Why?”
I think people have a right to choose what they convert their energy into, the Bible calls this substance. It’s your livelihood, estate or ability to produce an income: people convert it for things all the time, relationships, power, respect and of course inanimate objects.
My affair with art began in the first grade; in primary school I entered and won a school art competition. The same thing happened again two years later when I won first place in the third grade, I have always loved art but sometimes in life I drifted. It might be random but I now know how to take the cues in life. Now that I am an adult and somewhat grown up, art has found its way back to me again.
I am privileged to work with a company that lets me explore aspects of this beauty and more…
*****
We parked the car in the basement, made sure the car doors we came out of were locked before we proceeded to walk towards the lift, but not before I took a pause to fix myself. I stopped just long enough to see a vintage Mercedes Benz convertible parked there in the basement too. I wondered who it belonged to and it reminded me of my daddy.
As we made our way into the lift P. told me that he came to buy some paintings. “A. is a really nice person,” he ventured. “The art is great too, but it’s great to buy it from a guy I genuinely like.” I smiled and he held the door of the lift allowing me to step out.
Stepping out, I looked down the passage way and took in the old-styled but newly veneered building, I wondered what kind of people where lurking beyond the brick and mortar walls. P. lead the way to a door on the second floor. He knocked and proceeded to greet the gentleman that opened the door. I followed the gesture and stepped into the room behind him. We walked into what appeared to be a art-studio meeting the modest living quarters of the young up and coming artist.
An array of paintings where arranged across the floor, others complete while others where still in the process. All of the paintings had a common theme, life in the city, struggle and hustle. P. showed me a interesting painting meshed with teabags. One particular piece caught my eye; the figure of a man deep in thought, crouched down with a hand on his cheek. Equally captivating were the words framing this figure.
P. took some time finalising his deal and this gave me time to converse with the other occupant of this space; a beautiful young lady who seemed to have been deeply engrossed in her andragogy just moments prior to our arrival. `Upon conclusion of the sale P. took his paintings but insisted we do one more stop.
Back in the elevator I found myself thinking… How much would I be willing to pay for such paintings? They are really good though. I have got to start getting to a point where I invest in art. Before I could fully complete my train of thoughts, we arrived at another door.
Behind this door P. and I were welcomed by an older looking gentleman. After some cordial greetings P. and I were allowed to enter into another art studio. This time, “Wow!” What a transformation this space was from the melancholy outside. Immediately once in, I was engulfed by a warm current of breath, the apartment was relatively warmer than the outside. There was a jazzy vinyl playing on the gramophone and an air of something not quite up beat, but very much content. A stark contrast to the lugubrious paintings we had bought.
S. picked up his paint brush and attempted to paint intermittently while maintaining the conversation with P. and myself. He had an old soul feel about him, I was enthralled as I walked past several paintings of his hanging on the wall; previous projects already completed. This was for a new he explained. Later on in the conversation P. told me that the vintage Merc parked in the basement belonged to S. I was not even a bit surprised.
Wishing you a beautiful world,
Fi
The Chronicles of Nana 