Maybe I Am an Apple Tree

Traditionally it works this way: The artist paints a picture. The art dealer shows it to a collector. Collector buys it and pays the dealer. The dealer gives a portion to the artist. The artist pays bills, which include studio rent. The dealer has bills to pay as well. The collector wakes up early each morning and smiles at the new framed artifact hanging in a hallway between the bedroom and bath. It works that way in fairy tales, the showing and sale of the artwork enable the artist to keep painting. It also gives the artist some emotional validation and an outlet for sharing his talent.

What person doesn’t wish to share the fruits of his or her labors? It’s only natural we want others to taste, to read, to touch, to hear, to see, to appreciate what we do or make or create. “Come listen to this…”. It is human to want others to appreciate your work. But frankly, it can be a pain in the ass to stop working, when it is working that fills your spirit, just so others can take a peek.

When I am painting I want to continue to paint. So long as I have the materials and a studio I only want to take a break for dinner or sleep.

I make myself happy by my own work. Each finished artwork is rolled onto a storage tube and shelved. This makes room for the next blank canvas to stare unblinking at the studio ceiling in anticipation of being turned into something it had never dreamed it might become. One new artwork follows the last and leads to the next. The making of art is a pipeline. Art dealers and galleries have the task of hauling off and marketing the so-called aesthetic products. Exhibiting my artwork always seemed like a waste of perfectly good painting time. Quite possibly my subconscious has devised a simple excuse for my lack of desire to display my work. I paint at a scale too large for most houses and art galleries and those which are voluminous enough are too grand to offer the intimate experience that I seek for my paintings. When those fifteen minutes of quiet and invisible fame I was allotted stretched into fifteen years I was a very lucky artist. Not everyone gets to live their life as artist for so long and make a living while doing so. I took it as necessary to stop making art long enough to deal with the business of documenting, working with galleries and dealers, framing pieces, shipping and exhibiting. I quietly resented the forced down-time. It felt like holding my breath underwater. Or perhaps having my hands tied would be a better simile.

Perhaps I am an apple tree that grows and then drops its fruit on the ground.


visit Sandy Kinnee.com

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