Monday, February 22, 2010


(Alberto Giacometti, Fleurs, 1952)

Dear B,

Please get out of my head.

It’s true you meant the world to me as an art teacher. It’s true I felt liberated, inspired by our lessons. Like the time you showed me how to use the eraser to find the line of a drawing, as Giacometti did. Or like the time you told me to stand in front of a Cubist painting until the forms appeared three-dimensional in front of my eyes. You were really a mentor.

But enough now. I cannot draw without hearing your criticism. I will never be as light and loose as Matisse and I’ll always have thumbprints at the edges of my paper. And no, I didn’t sell anything from that show in 2003, even though I was kiss ass enough to get myself in the show to begin with.

I think I saw you on the platform the other day and my heart dropped into my stomach. Shame curdled up as I remembered the way I’ve been handling the oil pastels: sticky, thick, clumsy.

Really, I think it’s best if you just go.

My best to you, MS

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