The Pain of Selling a Painting

I sit here this morning, it is overcast outside. Looks like rain. I have spent the early part of this day mourning over a sold painting. Silly, eh? I have had a "rush" of paintings selling over the past few weeks, and as elated as I am, I am also confused, scared, and yes, even missing a few of them.

I am confused as to why anyone in their right mind would even want to buy my work. It is mediocre at best. I am never satisfied with it. It never turns out to be the masterpiece I see in my mind. It always falls short of the beauty I envision. So, why would anyone want to own something that never reached its full potential? I am confused.

I am scared. Scared that I will never be able to replace the work. Now isnt that an odd fear? What if I never get an idea again? What if my so called "talent" somehow abandons me? Where is my muse? How could I ever replace all of these paintings? What will people expect next? The fear is paralizing. And I am in the midst of a fearful time.

I miss my paintings. Yes, I am a bit "touched", but I do. Most of my work is born from my life experiences. It is a neverending expression of childhood pain, adult rejection, abandonment, insecurity. When one of my paintings sell, a piece of me goes with them. I wonder, sometimes, if people realize this, or if they are merely buying a weird piece of art, to hang on their wall and ultimately forget about. It really dosent matter to anyone but me. This is one of the reasons why I share a kindred spirit with Frida Kahlo. Look at her life. Look at her pain. It is all there for everyone to see, when you look into the tear stained faces she so bravely put out there. I "met" Frida on a clearance table at Barnes and Noble about 9 months ago, and was instantly smitten. She shares my studio with me. I wonder if she ever missed any of her paintings? I wonder if she mourned after watching a piece of her life walk off under someones arm? I do. Call me odd, weird, crazy, whatever, but I do.

I find this one of my strongest assets, and possibly my biggest downfall. Vulnerability. I have been told my work is disturbing, odd, macabre, meaningful, beautiful, soul touching. Depends on who is looking at it. Despite its many colorful descriptions, it is mine. It is me. It is my life experience. And when I watch someone walk off with a painting of mine under their arm, or watch the postmaster as they stamp, insure, and ready a painting for shipping, a part of me mourns... and fears.... in a state of confusion.