In these times of plague and tribalism I should be able to find an escape in the art world, but museums are closed. I can’t travel. A Chagall at LACMA, a Lam at MOMA, a Dix in Colon, they are all unviewable. The masterpieces of the art world are out of my reach because of Covid.
The pandemic has intensified my belief that we have no future. It gnaws at me day and night. Since the first Earth Day I’ve heard about the coming ecological collapse. Something needed to be done, and in shorter and shorter increments before it was too late. Fifty years, then thirty years, then ten, and a recent article insisted we have already reached the tipping point. Game over. Even my favorite paintings can’t get me past this feeling of biblical reckoning.
In spite of my fear I paint and try to make a difference with my work. I have moments of severe depression and questioning. What is it all for? But I keep painting. Making art blots out the rest of the world, and gives me some internal silence, at least for a short time.