When my daughter was eight years old, she asked me if I can paint anything other than stripes. And she had a good point. Brilliant minds that I respect in the art world have asked me the same thing. That same week, over breakfast, my family had a sketchbook out on the table and I drew a bagel. I exclaimed, “There! See, I can draw something!” We had a good laugh about it, but as the years go on, I continue to receive the same comments from friends and colleagues.
In order for an artist to make it to the thirty-year mark, that person has got to have chutzpah, or a big ego, or both. It would otherwise be impossible to work tirelessly toward an obscure goal, against the interest of our mainstream culture, and against the interest of having a comfortable lifestyle.
At the age of nineteen, I called my mom from an ISD phone booth in India to let her know I had not taken my flight back and was “never coming home.” I swam and drank from the Ganges, gave up my name, and let everything float downstream. I found comfort in liminal space and in many ways got what I was looking for. After six months, I’d stepped in water buffalo shit one too many times and succumbed to external notions that I had no social standing and no practical life experience. I didn’t want to be a dropout.
Continue reading “Dad, Why Do You Paint Stripes?”
