an open space

art and misery
When I was 12 years old I took piano lessons from a woman named Vivian Bryan. Her husband, Mark, was an artist and a carpenter. They owned a house on a hill they made themselves, with property covered with eucalyptus trees and a studio in the back, painted in bright colors. Their house was filled with his furniture: hand-painted table tops and unconventional cabinets and grandfather clocks. Their daughter Hope would let me visit her room if I came early before her mother was ready, and I remember she had a loft in her bedroom, full of books. Their family was always warm and artistic, unconventional, adept, and cultured.

This morning we saw Mark at the beach. He's been a regular at my restaurant for years, coming in with old friends he goes kayaking with at the pier. This time he gave my father a postcard for an art show he has at Steynberg gallery, titled: Hard Times. He explained that he was getting a divorce. And the card that he handed out pictured a modern family sitting around a giant dinner table, gaunt in figure, with skeletons as faces with sinister smiles. The mother was carrying a large platter, with only the bones left of the turkey, as the children leaned in eagerly for her to set it down.

Today, Emily and Amy and I went to Sally Loo's, and after drove over to Steynberg to see his display. His style is very distinct and easily recognizable. Yet being an artist entails being in a state of constant vulnerability, where your heart and insides are always on display. Every piece reeked of satire and cynicism and a deep sadness. And I ached that a man, so brilliant, is so brimming with misery.