Working on this baby
Working on this baby
I’m glad I like orange. How else can one survive Kingsday in The Netherlands?
Numerology means, according to Wikipedia, believing that there is a divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. I personally think that this is bullshit. As a trained scientist I cannot see any logic in it.
Still… when I make art there is always something with numbers and counting. This piece here for instance had originally 7 green balls and 9 yellow balls in it. When I paint those balls I count them. For some reason it feels better when there are 7 or 9. And that is not about the esthetical aspect that it is often a better composition when there is an uneven number (as seen in flowerarrangements etc)
No, I know and always feel that it has something to do with my original family. We were seven children, plus two parents, which counts up to nine. Somewhere deep down I always feel that I have to paint them all to make sure that I don’t forget them and that they will be alright. It is as if I keep the group together and safe by adding that number somewhere in my art. It doesn’t work very well, because both of my parents have passed away. Which is once again proof of the nonsense of numerology.
Anyway, so much for scientific thinking… Maybe we all are superstitious in some way or another.
Yesterday I ran into the first new-born chickens in the neighborhood. This always inspires the feeling of spring in me, although it must be said that the chickens near my house have new offspring about every two months, except maybe in the winter.
Anyway, this morning I suddenly painted this chicken and he reminded me of the time when we got some new-born chickens when I was a child. We children got them from someone, without our parents knowing about it. So we got home with this box with four or five of the cutest and softest yellow balls in it.
I remember the frowned face of my mother. We got the lecture about having to take very good care of them all by ourselves and we could keep them ‘for a while’. It didn’t take very long before the cute balls turned into big, noisy and stinky chickens that we as children couldn’t contain anymore. We were actually a bit afraid of them.
One day they were gone, I guess to a place better fit for chickens. My mother was a wise woman to let us keep them ‘for a while’ and it was okay for us to lose these pets. They weren’t as suitable to cuddling as they seemed to be in the beginning.