Masters

GIVEAWAY!!! Head over to my Instagram account @imworriedmytherapisthatesme for your chance to win your very own entry (like the one above) with your 2 favorite pieces of art!

I am lucky to be able to visit my favorite painting of all time any time I want (at least that was the case pre-kids and pre-pandemic). This perfect portrait is housed at the National Gallery. I could stare and stare at this woman and never get bored. I feel a profound connection to her, and not simply because she is identical to my college roommate. What is she thinking about? Does she wish her lady’s maid had steamed out the creases in her veil? Is she missing her eyebrows? (FUN FACT: plucking out one’s eyebrows and hairline in 15th c Europe was à la mode for a certain class of women.) Her lips are so pouty, but she’s not sad. She just doesn’t give a f*** — this is simply her resting b**** face. And there is something so calming about that to me…

There’s nothing like a Wayne Thiebaud painting to make you feel simultaneously famished and profoundly insecure about your own artistic ineptitude. Has there ever been a painting style that so matches its subject? The thick, controlled paint just like butter cream frosting; it’s a visual onomatopoeia! And those shadows! GASP!…

What can one say about the greatest of the greats? Why can an ill old man cut paper in ways that make the heart sing beyond any paint put to canvas by healthy young artists? And how is this bulbous, blue, twisted woman so much sexier than I will ever be?