|Wrapped for shipping|
I've cut off the strapping tape and packing paper that protected it on my last two journeys to and from the West Coast. I'm staring at her now in my Vermont bedroom. She survived well.
I'm somewhat embarrassed by what I see, but I can't help that either.
My left logical brain says the grid of blank, staring eyes is overdone.
And that glistening teardrop from the central eye is just plain cheesy, but I cannot remove it. I've planned to, but my hand refuses to make the mark to cover it up. My heart says this story speaks the truth. So what truth?
At the risk of narrowing your experience of the painting, I will translate.
I am the little eye both sad and full of life, surrounded by ancestors I think, or protectors, connected by pale, thorny rose branches. They are the source of the tiny cascading roses descending in a flow of syrupy grace. For me, I, the little Eye, am resting against a background of living flesh, still part of the world of regeneration. The others are from the past, washed out but still influential. My touch of sadness is just the knowledge of death.