The image on the bottom left is a portrait of my friend, her daughter and her husband all of whom shall remain nameless to protect the innocent. She had asked me to paint a portrait of her family in the style of Matisse. So I thought, "Oh that's easy...". Well I can't really claim to be able to paint like the master himself, especially that master, but I could paint something in fun that resembled, vaguely, a Matisse painting. After all how complex really is a Matisse painting? For one, the most beautiful distinction about a Matisse painting is that every square inch is filled with gorgeous abstract design and nuances of color. That I could even pretend I could paint like that was hilarious. But I did have fun and so I sent the finished painting off with every confidence that it would be appreciated and loved.
Sometime after I completed the painting I found a photo of a real Matisse painting that had strikingly similar elements to mine although the style was completely different. The similarities were as follows: The mother in both paintings is holding her child on her lap in front of her while the father sits apart from them not really engaged in the activity; There is a scene outside the room in the background that seems to at first be a part of the inside but on second glance becomes another environment entirely; In both paintings the door that is open to the outside is shuttered and the lines in the shutters lead your eye down to the father; There are two large green elliptical shapes, both represent leaves and both inhabit the same amount of space in the format; In both paintings there is a landscape in the distance, the 3 figures are in the middle ground and there is a still life in the very frontal plane on the bottom right; There is also an identical element of wrought iron in the railing and on the piano in the Matisse painting and in mine it is in the bed frame. I just find these similarities uncanny. And I promise I had not seen this Matisse painting before I painted mine.
Now as far as the flaws in my painting, I admit that the young girl's head appears quite large for her body and the husband figure looks too small. Although in Matisse's painting the father is somehow not quite in perspective either. But my painting has neither the graceful line or stunning mastery of structure that is so obvious in the Matisse. In my painting there are areas that have no detail at all or texture to allow the eye to flow across them. To me these spaces feel "blank". In contrast the objects that contain detail seem to jar the eye into looking at them. Whereas in the Matisse painting every inch has design, color, texture and line that flows from one element to the next. I could go on lamenting the fact that I am not Matisse and criticizing my own painting but I would rather tell you that having studied this brilliant painting by the master has made me a better artist. And a better critic of my own work.
And now the shocking story of what happened next.
A package arrived at my studio one day and in it was this portrait I had painted for my friend or rather the remains of the portrait. The canvas was in pieces, there were curse words scrawled in ball point pen across several areas of the painting, the stretcher bars were hanging in shards. I think I dropped to my knees with the destroyed painting in my arms, completely numb and not able to put any thoughts together in my head. What on earth had happened here? Did they hate it that much? Why couldn't she just send it back and ask me to paint another one? I looked for a note or explanation of some kind. But there was nothing with the painting. I did however get a phone call that evening from her. She said, "I feel terrible, can you fix the painting? I'm in the perfect storm of an abusive relationship and I took it out on the painting because I couldn't stand to look at him". I still didn't know quite how to respond. I was kind of relieved that she didn't really hate the painting, just her husband. But now it was a moot point and I told her I couldn't fix it but maybe I could salvage parts of it. The left side with her and her daughter were still intact so I may be able to re stretch that half and make it into a new painting. I was however still in disbelief for weeks afterward. I put the painting away in my storage closet until I could recover and find time to work on it.
A few months later I opened the door to the closet and I noticed the intact half of the painting was laying on the floor behind some large canvases. I picked it up and draped it over the large paintings and closed the door. I repeated this same procedure each time I opened the closet as the piece of torn canvas continued to fall each time I closed the door. After 4 or 5 times of picking it up it was on the ground again and this time I neglectfully left it there. I must of walked over it several times over the next week or so. Sometime later I decided to resurrect the pieces and see what I could do. I looked all over the closet and couldn't find that one piece, the half with mother and child. I asked my roommate Larry if he saw it and he said, "yes I was tired of seeing it on the floor so I threw it away".
Is there a lesson in all of this? Is there a moral to the story? To me it means that when we treat something like trash it eventually finds a way to dispose of itself.
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