I was digging through a drawer in the abyss that is my room earlier this evening. I wanted to find these postcards I had bought in Italy, specifically one of a particularly beautiful Dalí painting I had seen in Rome. In the sea of yellow plastic (when I don’t want to organize things I just bag it – bad habit), I finally found hope: some printed ephemera from London I hadn’t gotten around to putting in my sketchbook. Sure enough, within bags of bags, I found postcards of art pieces. They were from Barcelona, the Louvre, and a small village fair in central Italy. They were lesser known paintings from Van Gogh, Gauguin, Monet, Vermeer, Mucha – some of my favorite artists. Sadly, I didn’t find that Dalí postcard. Not that it’s that valuable, it’s just nice to have mementos of a former time.
But those postcards bring me to another point: how do the artists we like become that way – liked, I mean?