Part 23

The escape

Finally holidays, I can forget the work for a few days, the whole thoughts about you, the arguments with myself, my feelings and my life up to the insight, to take my life into my hands again and become active. The financial problems in the gallery appear nearly insignificant, the fact, that my main sponsor wants to realign and I don’t fit in to his new concept any longer. And I can forget the emotional outbreaks of Sarah, my right hand for marketing and project leadership, when I had to dismiss her. The present exhibition is still on for another six weeks, Marc Valentino, a rising artist from New York who understands it, to bring the composition of colors in agreement with the abstract objects on his pictures. And thus I am, for the first time of my long career, not sure whether he is perhaps too innovative and too much ahead of the times. People became tired of following the abstract, their fantasies begin to wither away and a trend to the representational arts is appearing. Yes, I know, we have experienced such phases in art and nevertheless now it is different. People experience a faint in the virtual conception. They seem to lose the ability to unite their fantasy and the reality of the everyday life, to develop positive thoughts and feelings from the paintings and graphic art, to understand that art is a means to beauty. That makes me sad and at the same time I can understand it, because I am also not in the condition sometimes to recognize the gain.

Picture12

The rain drums against my car windows. I had so much the urge, to simply leave Seattle one time, without a goal, without reservation and travel route. I packed a few things together and drove. For three hours I’ve been incessantly hearing the monotonous noise of my windshield wiper. At the beginning of the journey I still had the radio on, but the storm and the tempest constantly disturbed the reception, it made me crazy. I didn’t really progress. Sometimes I even had to stop at the roadside, because my wiper didn’t managed it any longer to provide me with a clear view. In the last hours I nearly smoked a whole box of cigarettes, even though usually I just smoke only occasionally at parties. My stomach is empty and it got cold. The rain drums a kind of music, constantly the same rhythm. It’s time to look for an accommodation, a small motel at the edge of the Interstate 5, isolated and calm. I left Portland behind and the road is deserted. My feeling tells to me that there’s an endlessly long road without any destination in front of me.