I don't buy art; I don't really care to have it populating my hermitage

I don't put it on my walls. I like my walls quiet; I like space. historically the domicile was populated, in spite of internal pleasure of quiet walls, with images of significant people…because they were significant and interwoven into my life. all the frames with the exception of one or two of my grand girls and parental units lay emptied. why store memories of those who would prefer not to be woven? it would seem unhealthy to do so, thus they live in boxes stored out of site still. I suppose someday they should be disposed but that seems too much like discarding a 1/4 century of my existence.

art; I simply need to make it; no compulsion to look at it, live with it, visit storage facilities populated with it or buy it. but yesterday I bid on this piece, titled (if I recall correctly) she dreamed. because I find laying flat and gazing at the celestial canopy and what lays in my immediate vicinity peace inducing, the work spoke of to me–even before I knew the title. only after I bid on the work, did I note and aaahha the title.


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