The princess dipped in coloured wax.

I just found out this morning that Tony Scherman passed away from cancer last year. We bought a painting on the weekend and I was telling someone about how it was the second time I have walked around a corner and been struck breathless by an artwork on a wall. The only time previous to this past weekend was in 2018 when we went to the Murakami show and I found Poseidon. 

I wrote about it then. 

I feel as if based on his methods and subject matter I could most likely pick out one of his works in the wild without prompting and I'm grateful I was able to see one in person because seeing a photo of them online doesn't do them justice for their light and texture and emotion. I shouldn't have to even say that when it comes to seeing a piece in person versus looking at a photo but also I feel like I do have to say it. 

I navigated all of my anniversaries and I can still smile. I have hauled out the totes of decorations and lights and have thought about decorating but haven't. I haven't shopped.  I haven't baked, Christmas is a month from today and yeah. Time to get to work.

The Princess Eats Her Own Legs.

Standing in front of Tony Scherman's Poseidon this morning and I'm stricken by the highway of people who rush past, behind me, all around me, going places while I remain fixed to this one place. His eyes. They glow with a sadness that connects me to him, a sadness that I can identify with and this may forever be my favorite painting of all time now, for the expression, the lighting of the eyes, the roughness and scratches juxtaposed against the smooth wax of what is a new medium for me to explore. Encaustic painting.

And I can't seem to move, even though we gotta go, with lunchtime reservations half a city away and still the few with me today are scattered to all the levels of the gallery. They will find me and they'll have to pull me away from Poseidon's gaze.

And I didn't even come for this. I didn't expect to meet him today. I came for the Bombhead exhibit. I came for Murakami. I came for my membership card, which wasn't ready yet. I come here a lot. It's like a train station or an airport. There's a bustling hustle about it, endless lines that move lighting-quick, a sense of being alone in each room while you're surrounded by people, a rude slice of culture in which the beauty of the works presented contrasts exceptionally with the self-absorption of those in the crowd. I want to say I hate it but secretly I love it. I love the smells, the feelings, the stark realization when you see something new and fall in love. Like I did with Poseidon today. Brown eyes with more soul than one would even see in person. A darkness I understand perfectly.

And just like that I am collected and we're off. No time for Bombhead, maybe another day. Enough time to marvel that the same man painted Gero Tan and Picture of a Turtle.

I remain surprised at that. But moved by this.