Lately, my days have held a slightly suspicious mix of things. I’m finishing paintings before we leave for Europe. I’m ordering olive oil from a tiny producer in Sorrento, choosing frames, working on houses, saving photographs, planning dinners, looking at hotel rooms, rearranging furniture, and keeping a running list of places I want to go and things I want to bring back.
For a long time, I would have looked at that list and tried to circle teh “real” work. When I traveled for inspiration, I called myself a painter. When I sourced pieces for someone, I was a designer. When I wrote about the gallery, I was a writer - or perhaps a curator. Gallerist usually covered it, unless what I was doing had very little to do with the gallery at all. I kept reaching for the closest available word, as if the right label would make the day feel more legitimate. On brand.
These days I am less interested in the word and more interested in the throughline. THe painting matters, but so does the room it eventually lives in. The room matters, but so does the way someone’s shoulders drop when they walk into it. A trip can start as research and end up as a photograph, a palette, a recipe, a story told over dinner, an idea that resurfaces six months later in an entirely different project. Nothing stays politely in its category and I’ve decided, I like it that way.
I’ve also been sitting with something that sound contradictory, but feels true: I’m taking my work more seriously than ever, while becoming less convinced that seriousness has to look serious.
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