A morbid, yet interesting thought came to me as I was working on my latest piece. I had wondered what my last painting would look like when I finally die. Every artist has their last piece, and I wondered what mine will be.
Will it be an abstract? Portrait? Sketch? An incomplete work? Am I staring at it right now?
I get this feeling that I will be in the middle of a very cool painting and then the next morning...poof! I die. I meet my maker, my death, and die happily ever after. I'll have an unfinished piece in my studio that my family won't want anyone to touch, or look at. Or perhaps they do and have the rest of it commissioned off and it will be completed and placed on a mantle somewhere.
Death doesn't scare me, but as an artist I have been taught to deal with it with each piece I make knowing that piece's value will increase the day I die. No more will be made, ever. I'm only 34 but each decade seems to fly faster than the next. I want to die making art. In the middle of art, breathing art.
Sick. I know. It was just a thought.
