Sketches & Paintings & Everything Else

This past May, the week I returned from Napa, I received two paintings from two friends. Yep, you read that right: Beautiful paintings just fell from their hands into mine.

In both cases, I felt I had received an extraordinary gift. Yet in both cases, the friend/artist was almost apologetic, as though their art wasn’t, wasn’t, … what? Good enough? Oh my goodness! They were very good! Besides, to me, the process of pouring your vision onto a canvas is a pretty spectacular thing. Period. End of Sentence. And I was blessed, so blessed I was speechless.

Okay, I’m never speechless.



“TWO FRIENDS GAVE ME THEIR PAINTINGS!”

Yes! I shouted from the rooftops and told just about anyone who stood still long enough to hear. Because I have rarely felt so honored as when a friend entrusted, gifted, his painting to me.

This past weekend, I dipped into The Frick Collection in New York City. The Frick is hosting a HUGE exhibit of Pablo Picasso’s early sketches; apparently that kid sketched constantly.



Standing Female Nude, Picasso

 I found myself standing with a crowd of people in front of three sketches of women, dated 1918, 1919 and 1920. One was a classic sketch, and Picasso’s execution of this portrait was exquisite. Unlike most art exhibits, where all the patrons stand and study silently, we strangers were talking: “I never knew Picasso was such a gifted portraitist!”… “Look at the precision! the detail! the shading!”… “Amazing!”   Hung beside the classic was another sketch, an early attempt at what he would later refine into cubism. “meh.” “maybe.” And then, a surreal sketch, this one strangely fetching, though the faces were skewed & stretched. “hmmm.” “I think I like that.”

Over 60 sketches, paired and tripled in display, so the patron could easily compare the development of Picasso, as an artist, from the late 1890’s into the Roaring Twenties. It was incredibly fascinating.

But even more fascinating – to me – is the fact that today, anything that Picasso sketched, any off-hand scribble is worth A-LOT-OF-MONEY.

A thought has been tumbling in my mind:



What if we valued the work of our hands – our very own hands – as the world values Picasso’s early sketches. What if we considered the work we do, the words we say – all that is us – as though it were valuable enough to be displayed at The Frick.

We would be different, wouldn’t we?