Little Bottled Time Machines | Contact Me

Recently, I had an unexpected day off.  So I quickly seized the opportunity to crack open some long forgotten jars of linseed oil and gum turpentine in preparation for an experimental series I have in mind for an upcoming art exhibit.  Like an old song that transports you back to the time you first heard it, the toasty smells triggered a rush of memories as golden as the mediums themselves.

Time Machine
Time Machine

Painting en plein air.  Art books.  Pastels.  Charcoals.  My first models.  The thoughts were as fleeting as the points of light Monet struggled to capture with his brush.

Old Master styled glazing.  Simmering pot of rabbit skin glue.  My first art teacher.  The images and moments reached back even further in time.

My uncle.

Ah, I had forgotten.  Lower East Side.  Skinny and maniacal.  Van Goghesque.  Portrait of a man.  Repainted into a clown at my request.  The night I first smelled linseed and turp.  Off to Viet Nam.  Skinny and scared.  GI Joesque?

Years later.  His paint box becomes my paint box.

It was from that very box I retrieved my little bottled time machines.

© 2011 Xiomáro

Published by Xiomáro

Nationally exhibited artist, photographer, speaker, teacher, and curator. Author of "Weir Farm National Historic Site" (Arcadia Publishing).

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