I had several adventures with the artist last night, two I remember now as if I could open my front door and walk into them. Rarely do I have vivid dreams to recall the moment I wake up. This morning was an exception. One involved the setting of a placid seashore shared with another Saint Petersburg painter, Andrew Makarov. The three of us were walking on a sand beach discussing the power and the glory of human happiness. We walked out to a pier and jumped in with all our clothes on.
The other was with Lena at a communal dinner in a fine city restaurant where everyone spoke Russian besides me, yet I had to prove my camaraderie with the group, so I cleared and wiped down the table, and went to the kitchen to finish the dishes.
Not much, but there was more, as any stark dream will unveil to the dreamer. To retell it with any detail is folly, as witnessed above.
I have 25 paintings left hanging in these rooms. This one is its own room of cotton. Hang it on your wall and sleep beneath cotton sheets, head on a cotton pillow, and dream of anything you can while you can still dream. Especially if the dream left with its power to surprise you.
Thank you Lena for these beautiful paintings to show!
Eager buyer, I shall wrap it up with the greatest care in a box you will save as a conscientious example of all future packaging to come.
So, that’s two works of art for the price of one, although the latter is industrial art and not at all mantel pretty. Bring it to the office and show colleagues how to mail an order out, and then invite a colleague or several to dinner and show off the Ulanova you recently purchased because life is worth living, and we do it one time, and spending on beauty is your right practiced without the threat of military police and search dogs.
Purchase these well appointed ladies and I will toss in one of our 6 x 3′ exhibition banners. Great for the kid’s room or the man cave where the football posters and pennants used to hang before we realized that the NFL is just an oligarch plantation where wealth drops down in bags of gold, but dignity is fumbled, time and again.
And you can place the beautiful painting where your dignity still seeks appropriate outreach. The parlor or dining room. Below the purple granny we pass the potatoes on holiday and look upon the world with delight. Life is easy for the industrialized cultures. We know we’re lucky, so we make or purchase a painting and raise our young to be better than we are. It is the joy of responsibility. Those who refuse to seek it, are just jackasses, and there are many. That is why we have pain in places where its always Christmas on earth. Know an artist. Be an artist. Save the world from our wealthy self-pity.
Christies’ Art Tulips in Amsterdam Auction House of Billionaire Rot just sold an artificial intelligence masterpiece to an art-hater for $432,500.00.
Undercut these oligarchs of grand stupidity this holiday season. Pack all your years of love and human tenderness into a tiny fabric ball placed beneath your pillow on a snowy December night. Think on your children and grandchildren, holiday decoration and cheer, loved ones lost and gained and maintained. Dream a long, deep sleep night of a world without Jeff Bezos picking his ear wax and the next minute the modern serfs of earth throwing a billion coins at his feet. Think of Santa Claus and Charles Dickens, why not? And then watch a tremendous time lapsed video into the future beginning with a solitary bird of prey landing on a mall roof and the same species of bird leaving the mall of the future, level ground of earth now grass, wildflowers, insects, worms and no human being you have ever known or will know upon it. A people unknown moving over the mall that was so long ago, that is no more. People of no history because history wasn’t worth repeating to idiots who purchase paintings made by a computer.
In the morning take the fabric ball from under the pillow. Take it to the kitchen and squeeze it over your favorite coffee mug.
Alocasia juice and a new day worth living. Drink up!
All for one hundred and thirty dollars. Created by human hands in a world shared by humans. Try it sometime. It won’t hurt you as much as celebrity worship has.
I hope to see friends and new friends tomorrow night. I have door prizes of painting(s) and a vacuum sealer. I’ve added a couple quiches to the menu and washed the floors on my hands and knees. Autumn is the surprise time, and our second gale in a week blew over Ontario last night. It’s time to batten down the hatches and set that third sheet to the wind. If you drive, think taxis. If you walk, think about making a taxi driver your private chauffeur. Pretend with me that we’re crazy rich, but not necessarily in that order.
Lena did it again, and this morning I saw Bacchus at court in full inebriation. Many birds and a bald guy came to call.
“Beautiful strangers in New York. Ancient Greek Gods and Danae. Bacchus is the God of Winemaking and Inspiration.” 2018. Acrylic, and photo by Eric Olson.
I have woken each morning since August with this exhibition in mind, and before that, sporadically, but just as intense when imagined. I wonder often if I should have went to divinity school to become a preacher. A veritable Vernon Johns selling vegetables out of my pick up truck on the side of the road after Sunday service. I say this because I feel lately that artists and their art, when taken together, exemplify the human spirit far better than any Middle Eastern Bible can, repetitively citing another used parable about a flock of sheep, a wife to lay with, and a regular threat of a high and mighty smiting. And I realize that a Christian life would be nice, but very stale, following the same old example of a Jesus who never painted a picture, or sat on a train, or read a book about black bears in the wild.
Artists suffer and abandon, accept and howl as good as any bigoted patriarch of Canaan. It’s been so since the compiling of the good book of whichever religion your grandparents pretended to obey, and passed down to you after the atheist slaughter of the modern wars and rise of the nuclear age. Every generation since Job and Jesus has had the artist and the poet to imitate and/or reflect joy and suffering, and every age does to them just what the mighty Lord often did to his abiding flock.
And it often ain’t pretty.
There are artists like Lena Ulanova who are humble to the core, and give back in spirit and wonder so much more than what life offers. I look at her paintings throughout the gallery and am comforted that spirit and harmony with nature and man is in tact as it ever was. I see improvements made to a suffering world, joy expressed, and original compositions of the eternal human condition. If you knew Lena like I imagine to know her, you would see how I see a modern-day St. Francis of Assisi—with a palette of paint and substrate of the forest. No creature fears her presence. All of nature is her monastery and mankind is connected as before, now and always. She is a mirror of the lust of life, as any religion must be if it is trying to remain human.
I made this painting to revere the artist in woman and man. Nobody expects her to perform the healing miracles of the saint, and yet my soul is free and the birds alight on her shoulder.