Last night (or early morning) a painting of mine was put back on a train in St. Petersburg heading to Moscow. It was one among several exceptional pieces by other painters who have gracefully invited me into their world of high art moves. “High” as in “spiritually deeper” in the traditional sense—something other which I have not experienced in a lifetime.
Locally, in America, I have had no luck in finding a group of painters who work together to achieve together. Very difficult to seek out when visual art among educated people in the U.S. is relegated to the experts to define in galleries and museums. There is no art market in a middle class that can afford something like a new coffee-maker just for aesthetic purposes. Oftentimes, painting seems such an unnecessarily lonely pursuit, as evidenced by websites such as Painter’s Table that archive contemporary painters. I used to go there to study and…
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