I like art, and by art, in this case, I’m referring to painting, sculpture, and, to a certain extent, photography. I’m not saying that music, dance, film and architecture aren’t art, or poetry and literature. Or mixed media, or graphic novels, or graffiti, and oh my goodness, we’re already bogged down in semantics, and would you look at the time. Let’s keep it simple, and say I like pictures. I like to look at them, and sometimes buy them to look at them some more.

 

My collection, such as it is, is eclectic, as I don’t really know that much about art, and sometimes I’m not even sure what I like. I took several art history courses in university, but they were almost always offered at night, in winter, in dim, overheated auditoriums, taught by intense women in black with possibly fake British accents. I will admit to sleeping through the Romanesque and Baroque periods, and most of American Expressionism. I have been to many of the world’s great museums, and enjoyed the bar and gift shop in every one. One of my dearest friends teaches design history at Sotheby’s Institute of Art, and just knowing her makes me feel tasteful. Donna Tartt’s “The Goldfinch,” which tells of loss, love, and the promise of art, is one of my all time favourite novels. All to say that I am, at best, a keen amateur appreciator, and, at worst, a dabbler and a dilettante.

 

Let me assure you I don’t by any means have the budget, or even the eye, to have a meaningful art collection. I go to art shows and galleries, and come away thinking most of what I see is utter horse poop. Sometime, at the more edgy galleries, it actually IS horse poop, but, you know, dehydrated and made arty-like. Much of what I see is either twee, or self-indulgent, or just completely unfathomable, at least to me. What I DO like is almost always beyond my means, but still, I keep looking, and seeing, because painting communicates emotional intelligence across time and space. Just look at Munch’s “The Scream,”or Vermeer’s “Girl with a Pearl Earring,”  or Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”. They are someone’s vision made real, tangible and lasting. To this day, I wonder why everyone in Da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” is sitting on one side of the table, and if they asked for separate cheques.

 

 

This is one of the very first original paintings we ever bought. I like the colour and the drama. My father said I should return it because it’s scratched. I assured him that was intentional, but who really knows.

 

 

We bought this at a gallery in Baie St. Paul. The artist is Dominik Sokolowski. I like the thick, geometric texture of this painting. I think it says something about masculinity and architecture, but I’m not sure what.

 

 

Speaking of masculinity, this was a birthday gift to me from John. The artist, Michael Harrington, grew up in Gatineau, where his parents ran a motel. All sorts of shady characters would show up to drink and do deals in the bar. The guy on the left looks like Chad Kroeger from Nickelback.

 

 

This is arguably our most valuable painting, and certainly the largest. It’s by Matt Bahen. His landscapes are intense, beautiful, and a little bit disturbing. It’s called “The Rock,” and we bought it before Dwayne Johnson got wind of it.

 

This is one of my favourite paintings ever, and of course it’s not original, or even real, whatever “real” means. It’s a copy of Jean Paul Lemieux’s “Julie and the Universe,” printed on canvas, and it hangs in the boys’ bathroom. Art should be everywhere.

 

 

This is our oldest painting, in the Biedermeier style circa 1820, and it amuses me to no end to tell people that this fabulous little fellow is an ancestor on John’s side. I don’t think he’s a direct ancestor, as a closer look seems to deny the possibility that he ever fathered any children. I do love his handbag.

 

There’s more, but the tour must end for today. Meet you in the gift shop, or better yet, the bar.

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