The first time I considered purchasing a piece of art was during the coffee shop boom near the turn of our most modern century. Small oils, mostly rural farming scenes, were displayed on a reclaimed brick wall, pieces from the shop owner's artist sister-in-law. I visited the shop frequently for my favorite beverage and due to my snobbish coffee palette; this was one of only a few I would consider. The drive was nearly 60 miles from my home, (but less than one from my home to be).
The paintings were like welcoming neighbors to a village I was yet to be part of. At some point I no longer wanted to visit, I wanted ownership. Tentatively approaching the front counter, I was informed that the small painting of a twiggy tree in front of a barn - the one I wanted most -had sold. This marks one of my earliest and ongoing dilemmas in acquiring art; not being able to get what I finally decide upon. I used to think this was because I liked what everyone else did and that I was slow to make up my mind, (though one time I arrived 15 minutes into the outset of a show, swiftly and assuredly made up my mind, turned to the artist only to have them say that they has just sold the piece!) but I've had pieces lost in the mail, and one was even stolen from the artist studio before shipping.
There were second and third choices of course. There were lengthy discussions with fellow coffee shop patrons as to what would make a good purchase -- one that represented the general body of work, or the one that stepped beyond. Perhaps the one that lacked detail but the color or composition was pleasing. Indecision turned into inaction.
The day I finally moved, a house warming gift was presented to me from my mother and sister. Wrapped in newspaper, I was sure it was a painting from the local coffee shop. It was one that was atypical of the artist's subject matter and was rather simple in that it was a small vase of peachy mums. I was glad for the gift and for the decision that I did not have to make.
The painting found its way on a small interior wall that is often viewed from the kitchen. I catch glimpses frequently... the flower colors complementing the ivory tone of the new walls in this old village.
The fit was instant and sure. A few years later, with the closing of the coffee shop, I hadn't anticipated the painting evolving into a token memory of a earlier time, but it did -- one I'm glad to have. It reminds me of the warmth and comfort I took in that coffee shop after traveling a distance on concrete encased roadways - it helps focus the smell of the coffee roast and the honey color of the wood floors in my memory -- and many cups of perfect espresso.
The day I finally moved, a house warming gift was presented to me from my mother and sister. Wrapped in newspaper, I was sure it was a painting from the local coffee shop. It was one that was atypical of the artist's subject matter and was rather simple in that it was a small vase of peachy mums. I was glad for the gift and for the decision that I did not have to make.
The painting found its way on a small interior wall that is often viewed from the kitchen. I catch glimpses frequently... the flower colors complementing the ivory tone of the new walls in this old village.
The fit was instant and sure. A few years later, with the closing of the coffee shop, I hadn't anticipated the painting evolving into a token memory of a earlier time, but it did -- one I'm glad to have. It reminds me of the warmth and comfort I took in that coffee shop after traveling a distance on concrete encased roadways - it helps focus the smell of the coffee roast and the honey color of the wood floors in my memory -- and many cups of perfect espresso.
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