a day in the cities
Yesterday my husband and I braved the pre-holiday traffic to spend a day in St. Paul and Minneapolis. A highlight of the day was the exhibit at the Groveland Gallery of our painter friend Mark Horton
. Mark's paintings are striking in color, with strong composition and beautiful, painterly brushwork (the paint sometimes seems about to drip off the canvas.) His work expresses a vibrant energy through images of city life. I'm particularly fond of his aerial views, in which the horizon line disappears and the abstract patterns of the city blocks are emphasized.
We also visited a friend who lives in a really stunning modern home on Lake Harriet in Minneapolis that has been featured in architectural magazines and books. Although its FL Wright-inspired design is grand, and full of striking angles and huge windows, the house also includes intimate and cozy nooks as well. Along a hallway on the first floor are a series of five small oil landscapes that our friend purchased from me about ten years ago.
When she showed us these, my reaction was as usual in this situation--I am really touched that my work has a home where it is loved and appreciated. But there is also a part of me that feels quite removed and separate from my own past work. It seems so strangely unfamiliar--I almost wonder, who did this? My own work from another time, another stage can feel simultaneously unfamiliar and yet without a doubt, deeply a part of me.