It's that time of year again! I am driving down the street, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I am forced to slow down and swerve to avoid collision with an unexpected congestion of vehicles and mankind that can only be caused by one thing... a garage sale!
Cars and trucks line both sides of the street as I delicately weave between moms and pros, skateboarders, men and women on their way to or from work, the retired folk and curious neighbors. Their faces are truly gleeful as they approach that first sale of the spring. Indeed, those of us living in the north cannot have sales year-round as they do in warmer climates. We have been cooped up in our homes all winter, and seeing garage sale ads and signs is a sure indication that cold weather is over. We can once again get nosy and see what people are getting rid of, and perhaps even find a treasure or two if we're lucky!
I am no stranger to this annual event. Some of you know that I have held many a sale in my garage over the years, and I have seen those gleeful people approach my home with the same anticipation that I often feel. It's a lot of work to prepare and conduct a sale but it's fun too, and mine have usually been quite successful.
I have also been on the buying side at dozens of sales. I found a nice old print, Pilgrims Going to Church, by George Henry Boughton, and a few Currier & Ives prints as well. I have discovered antiques, art books, pottery, old toys, and a multitude of other items to add to our collections. Some things find their way into our daily lives or are put on display to share, some are held for reference in the future. But, whether I like to admit it or not, a lot of it will end up in another sale in our garage in the next year or so. But that's OK! I have been part of the process, and it is the process that is so much fun. The process is what creates that glee. It's the hunt for treasure that I thrive on, and I wouldn't change a thing.
See you in the garage!
Friday, April 16, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Art Collection
There was a wealthy man who, along with his devoted son, shared a passion for fine art. Together they traveled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many other artists adorned the walls of the family estate. The son's trained eye and sharp business mind caused his widowed father to look on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector.
War engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son had died while rescuing another soldier. Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the future with anguish and sadness. The masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home.
One morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and was carrying me to safety when he died.
The old man invited the soldier in. As they talked, the young man related how the man's son had often talked about his, and his father's, love of art. "I know this isn't much, I'm not a great artist," said the young man, "but I want to give you this."
As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the son's face in striking detail. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. "Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift." Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace.
After the soldier departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the mantle, pushing aside thousands of dollars worth of paintings.
As the stories of his son rescuing dozens of wounded soldiers began to surface, the man realized that even though his son was no longer with him, the boy's life would live on because of those he had touched, and his grief began to ease. The painting of his son became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamored. He told his neighbors it was the greatest gift he had ever received.
The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. Since he had no heir, all his paintings were to be sold at auction, and the art world was abuzz with anticipation.
The appointed day soon arrived, and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day. Greatness would be achieved as many would claim, "I now have the greatest collection."
The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum's list. It was the painting of the man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. The room was silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Minutes passed. No one spoke. From the back of the room someone said, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son. Let's forget it and go on to the good stuff." More voices echoed in agreement.
"No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "The son! Now, who will take the son?"
Finally, a friend of the old man spoke. "Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That's all I have. I knew the boy, so I'd like to have it."
"I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?" called the auctioneer.
After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going once. Going twice. Sold!" The gavel fell.
Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and start bidding on these treasures!"
The auctioneer laid down his gavel, and announced the auction was over. Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean, it's over? We didn't come here for a picture of some old guy's son. What about all of these paintings? There are millions of dollars worth of art here!"
The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son, gets it all."
War engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son had died while rescuing another soldier. Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the future with anguish and sadness. The masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home.
One morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and was carrying me to safety when he died.
The old man invited the soldier in. As they talked, the young man related how the man's son had often talked about his, and his father's, love of art. "I know this isn't much, I'm not a great artist," said the young man, "but I want to give you this."
As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the son's face in striking detail. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. "Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift." Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace.
After the soldier departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the mantle, pushing aside thousands of dollars worth of paintings.
As the stories of his son rescuing dozens of wounded soldiers began to surface, the man realized that even though his son was no longer with him, the boy's life would live on because of those he had touched, and his grief began to ease. The painting of his son became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamored. He told his neighbors it was the greatest gift he had ever received.
The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. Since he had no heir, all his paintings were to be sold at auction, and the art world was abuzz with anticipation.
The appointed day soon arrived, and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day. Greatness would be achieved as many would claim, "I now have the greatest collection."
The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum's list. It was the painting of the man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. The room was silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Minutes passed. No one spoke. From the back of the room someone said, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son. Let's forget it and go on to the good stuff." More voices echoed in agreement.
"No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "The son! Now, who will take the son?"
Finally, a friend of the old man spoke. "Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That's all I have. I knew the boy, so I'd like to have it."
"I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?" called the auctioneer.
After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going once. Going twice. Sold!" The gavel fell.
Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and start bidding on these treasures!"
The auctioneer laid down his gavel, and announced the auction was over. Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean, it's over? We didn't come here for a picture of some old guy's son. What about all of these paintings? There are millions of dollars worth of art here!"
The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son, gets it all."
-Author Unknown
Will you take the Son?
Will you take the Son?
"For God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16
Have a blessed Easter.
Have a blessed Easter.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Stuff that Matters
I sometimes look back at my life and am reminded that the only stuff that made any difference, that really mattered, was (and is) the time spent with those I love.
Vacations, meals together, school and church activities, and friendships all feed my soul and create lifelong memories. These are what I remember most from my early years, and continue to be the things that matter, and make me who I am.
I got an email the other day that had this Chinese proverb at the end:
Vacations, meals together, school and church activities, and friendships all feed my soul and create lifelong memories. These are what I remember most from my early years, and continue to be the things that matter, and make me who I am.
I got an email the other day that had this Chinese proverb at the end:
If there is light in the soul, there will be beauty in the person.
If there is beauty in the person, there will be harmony in the house.
If there is harmony in the house, there will be order in the nation.
If there is order in the nation, there will be peace in the world.
If there is beauty in the person, there will be harmony in the house.
If there is harmony in the house, there will be order in the nation.
If there is order in the nation, there will be peace in the world.
There were some wonderfully bright souls that got together last weekend, and I had the opportunity to bask in their light and beauty. The world has a better future because they are in it.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Big Art
I finished painting a special wall mural last night.
I couldn't help but think of the first mural that I ever did. It was a large painting of children, and small animals, and trees, and grass and birds. One whole wall in the nursery at church was covered with my early art. The toddlers enjoyed it for nearly twenty years until a room remodel was done, and the wall was either torn down or buried under new sheet rock.
Over the years, I have worked on a variety of oversized paintings and graphics. I've done huge numbers on garage doors and high-rise elevators. I worked on backdrops for school plays, painted the sides of trucks and store windows, and acted as assistant and advisor on a 40-foot long playroom wall mural for which my son had been commissioned.
It requires a different mindset to work on something close up, knowing it will be viewed from a distance. Scaled preliminary drawings, larger brushes, more paint, and a tad more energy are all critical for success in painting big art.
So, back to the newest mural: a large, white tree, painted in a new bedroom where a very special little person will wake up each morning. Grandchild number one will soon be here! We are looking forward to meeting you, Amelia Jane!
I couldn't help but think of the first mural that I ever did. It was a large painting of children, and small animals, and trees, and grass and birds. One whole wall in the nursery at church was covered with my early art. The toddlers enjoyed it for nearly twenty years until a room remodel was done, and the wall was either torn down or buried under new sheet rock.
Over the years, I have worked on a variety of oversized paintings and graphics. I've done huge numbers on garage doors and high-rise elevators. I worked on backdrops for school plays, painted the sides of trucks and store windows, and acted as assistant and advisor on a 40-foot long playroom wall mural for which my son had been commissioned.
It requires a different mindset to work on something close up, knowing it will be viewed from a distance. Scaled preliminary drawings, larger brushes, more paint, and a tad more energy are all critical for success in painting big art.
So, back to the newest mural: a large, white tree, painted in a new bedroom where a very special little person will wake up each morning. Grandchild number one will soon be here! We are looking forward to meeting you, Amelia Jane!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The early bird catches the you-know-what
There is something almost fantasy-like about the early morning hours.
I remember when I was a kid, delivering the Saint Paul Life newspaper, how much I appreciated the silence of predawn darkness as I began my weekly route. I enjoyed the crisp crunch of snow on the sidewalk under my feet, and seeing the first lights being turned on as people started to get ready to go to work. The only traffic I ever saw was a garbage truck driving by or a police car cruising the neighborhood, and that was fine by me.
During the summer, when school was out, I loved to go fishing in the early morning hours. I rode my bike to pick up minnows at Gimp's Bait Shop on Rice Street, and he never seemed to be very happy when I knocked on the door at 5:00 a.m., soon to learn I was only going to buy a few shiners. I'd pack my bait carefully, then make the long bike ride to Sucker Creek, all the while anticipating the huge crappies that awaited me as the sun came up. Still today, there isn't much that can match the magic of an early morning fishing trip. Being the first one at the boat landing, pushing off from the dock in the dark, and making the cool journey to my favorite bay is enough to give me goose bumps. The excitement of the first cast into the foggy water is only surpassed by the explosion of a bass, breaking the surface, with the sun just starting to come up on the horizon.
As a young adult, living on my own, I frequently stopped at Serlin's Cafe or Embers Restaurant for bacon and eggs before going to work. Because I was a "regular," the waitress knew my order, and would have that first cup of coffee poured even before I got my jacket off. I have fond memories of those early morning hours spent at Embers for another reason too, because it was there, in a booth by a window overlooking Highway 36, that a young woman (who would later become my wife) would often meet me for breakfast and conversation as we got to know one another.
I still am an early riser. It seems that no matter what time I go to bed at night, I wake up between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m. I enjoy a leisurely breakfast while reading at the kitchen table, and then I head out to work or the studio, knowing I will accomplish more before 8:00 a.m. than in the entire 8 hours that follow.
Whoever said that the early bird catches the worm was correct, in more ways than one. I wonder what time he got up every morning.
Northern Sunrise, original acrylic by Dennis Sterner
I remember when I was a kid, delivering the Saint Paul Life newspaper, how much I appreciated the silence of predawn darkness as I began my weekly route. I enjoyed the crisp crunch of snow on the sidewalk under my feet, and seeing the first lights being turned on as people started to get ready to go to work. The only traffic I ever saw was a garbage truck driving by or a police car cruising the neighborhood, and that was fine by me.
During the summer, when school was out, I loved to go fishing in the early morning hours. I rode my bike to pick up minnows at Gimp's Bait Shop on Rice Street, and he never seemed to be very happy when I knocked on the door at 5:00 a.m., soon to learn I was only going to buy a few shiners. I'd pack my bait carefully, then make the long bike ride to Sucker Creek, all the while anticipating the huge crappies that awaited me as the sun came up. Still today, there isn't much that can match the magic of an early morning fishing trip. Being the first one at the boat landing, pushing off from the dock in the dark, and making the cool journey to my favorite bay is enough to give me goose bumps. The excitement of the first cast into the foggy water is only surpassed by the explosion of a bass, breaking the surface, with the sun just starting to come up on the horizon.
As a young adult, living on my own, I frequently stopped at Serlin's Cafe or Embers Restaurant for bacon and eggs before going to work. Because I was a "regular," the waitress knew my order, and would have that first cup of coffee poured even before I got my jacket off. I have fond memories of those early morning hours spent at Embers for another reason too, because it was there, in a booth by a window overlooking Highway 36, that a young woman (who would later become my wife) would often meet me for breakfast and conversation as we got to know one another.
I still am an early riser. It seems that no matter what time I go to bed at night, I wake up between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m. I enjoy a leisurely breakfast while reading at the kitchen table, and then I head out to work or the studio, knowing I will accomplish more before 8:00 a.m. than in the entire 8 hours that follow.
Whoever said that the early bird catches the worm was correct, in more ways than one. I wonder what time he got up every morning.
Northern Sunrise, original acrylic by Dennis SternerSunday, February 28, 2010
A Quiet Day at the Gallery
As I write this, I am sitting at an old desk in the Stillwater Art Guild Gallery, of which I am a member. It is a cold, yet sunny Sunday afternoon, and I am fulfilling my bimonthly obligation to work. So far today, there does not appear to be a tremendous demand for local art, since we have had only 12 visitors in the first 3 hours that we have been open, and no one has made a purchase.
While it isn't good that the front door is not opening very often, these are the kind of days that I have found I can spend time evaluating my display wall, examining the art done by fellow gallery members (there are over 60 of us), and sometimes plot out a new direction. I am able to focus on nothing but art for several hours, and often it leads to ideas for new work. There is a wealth of talent in this group, and one can learn a lot by studying the work of others.
When another gallery member stops in to upgrade their display or pay rent, or simply to stay in touch, it gives us a chance to chat. We are all experiencing the same economic challenges with regard to our art, and we are all searching for ideas to promote our business, and stay fresh and relevant in our work.
And then, at any given moment, a solitary customer may walk in, or an older couple who have time to browse, or newlyweds who need something to hang on their walls. They start to ask questions about a particular artist or a subject that they are interested in, their favorite colors, or a style of painting they admire. I try to be as neutral as possible in directing them to an artist or a piece that will meet their requirements, obviously hoping I can guide them to my work. Sometimes it leads to a sale of one of my paintings, and sometimes a different artist's work. In the big picture, it doesn't matter. It is a great feeling to complete a sale of any art, witnessing how thrilled the customer is with their purchase, and anticipating how grateful the artist will be when I call to tell them they have had a good day at the gallery.
The customer leaves, and silence returns, broken only by soft background music from the CD player, and the creaking of the floor in the antique shop upstairs. I go back to my art magazine, or my blogging, or sketching. I will patiently wait for the next art lover to walk through that front door.
While it isn't good that the front door is not opening very often, these are the kind of days that I have found I can spend time evaluating my display wall, examining the art done by fellow gallery members (there are over 60 of us), and sometimes plot out a new direction. I am able to focus on nothing but art for several hours, and often it leads to ideas for new work. There is a wealth of talent in this group, and one can learn a lot by studying the work of others.
When another gallery member stops in to upgrade their display or pay rent, or simply to stay in touch, it gives us a chance to chat. We are all experiencing the same economic challenges with regard to our art, and we are all searching for ideas to promote our business, and stay fresh and relevant in our work.
And then, at any given moment, a solitary customer may walk in, or an older couple who have time to browse, or newlyweds who need something to hang on their walls. They start to ask questions about a particular artist or a subject that they are interested in, their favorite colors, or a style of painting they admire. I try to be as neutral as possible in directing them to an artist or a piece that will meet their requirements, obviously hoping I can guide them to my work. Sometimes it leads to a sale of one of my paintings, and sometimes a different artist's work. In the big picture, it doesn't matter. It is a great feeling to complete a sale of any art, witnessing how thrilled the customer is with their purchase, and anticipating how grateful the artist will be when I call to tell them they have had a good day at the gallery.
The customer leaves, and silence returns, broken only by soft background music from the CD player, and the creaking of the floor in the antique shop upstairs. I go back to my art magazine, or my blogging, or sketching. I will patiently wait for the next art lover to walk through that front door.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Hope Springs Eternal
I have an old, yellowed print hanging on the wall in my studio that reminds me to never give up. I saw it in an antique shop years ago, and commented to my wife how much I liked it. She immediately formed a plan to buy it, and on my next birthday she presented it to me as a gift.
It is a framed reproduction of a 1907 pencil drawing by an artist named Malcolm Stewart. A fairly extensive Google search has not yet revealed any facts about who Malcolm Stewart might have been. Nevertheless, I have chosen to assume that he has depicted himself in the drawing. It is a picture of an artist sitting at an easel, with a large pallet balancing on his left arm. He is leaning forward, with his right hand holding a brush against a canvas. Surrounding him in his sparse and dilapidated studio are several other canvases, some of which have a word written on them that no one ever wants to accept - REJECTED.
The print is a constant reminder to me that no matter how bad things get, there is always another day, or another idea, or another plan to change whatever issue or scenario may be getting me down. Over the years, I have faced rejection in many forms. When I was in my teens, I often submitted cartoons to national magazines, only to later receive a rejection letter. I have, occasionally, finished a painting that either I have rejected, or unfortunately, my customer has not been totally enthralled with. I applied for an arts grant that was not approved, sold art that was never used as intended, and have been passed over for jobs for which I had applied.
Regardless of the reasons, I learned a long time ago that it doesn't do me any good to feel sorry for myself and complain or quit. Through a combination of self-examination, analysis of the issue, and sometimes prayer, I have learned to accept these negative events, and usually gain valuable lessons and wisdom from the experience.
The title of the old print is perfect: Hope Springs Eternal in the Human Breast.
It is a framed reproduction of a 1907 pencil drawing by an artist named Malcolm Stewart. A fairly extensive Google search has not yet revealed any facts about who Malcolm Stewart might have been. Nevertheless, I have chosen to assume that he has depicted himself in the drawing. It is a picture of an artist sitting at an easel, with a large pallet balancing on his left arm. He is leaning forward, with his right hand holding a brush against a canvas. Surrounding him in his sparse and dilapidated studio are several other canvases, some of which have a word written on them that no one ever wants to accept - REJECTED.
The print is a constant reminder to me that no matter how bad things get, there is always another day, or another idea, or another plan to change whatever issue or scenario may be getting me down. Over the years, I have faced rejection in many forms. When I was in my teens, I often submitted cartoons to national magazines, only to later receive a rejection letter. I have, occasionally, finished a painting that either I have rejected, or unfortunately, my customer has not been totally enthralled with. I applied for an arts grant that was not approved, sold art that was never used as intended, and have been passed over for jobs for which I had applied.
Regardless of the reasons, I learned a long time ago that it doesn't do me any good to feel sorry for myself and complain or quit. Through a combination of self-examination, analysis of the issue, and sometimes prayer, I have learned to accept these negative events, and usually gain valuable lessons and wisdom from the experience.
The title of the old print is perfect: Hope Springs Eternal in the Human Breast.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
