Most mornings, I take a final cup of coffee to this corner of my dining room. The painting and 'stuff' on the table top changes with the season or my mood. The sun filters in through the bare limbs or narrow leaves of the tree outside. I sit and check my schedule, plan a blog entry or a painting or read and sing to Lucy (an almost daily event.)
This week, I've given some thought to the 'black and yellow book.' Last year, I had written that I was "Disappointed that I will not see my name on one of those black and yellow books. Annoyed that I let this become so important." ( see Endings and Beginnings) Now, I am surprised that I had put it behind me so well that I didn't even think about it's possible release date. I was not prepared to find it on the shelves of my favorite bookstore.
I pulled it down and sat in a big chair to glance through the pages. The author is a textbook writer/publisher. He has been a newspaper art critic and has a Masters in both teaching and English. There was nothing surprising, it fit the formula -- a formula which I could not seem to get. It will sell well.
Mostly though, I have thought about the differences in what I had envisioned for "my" book and the one I held in my hands. I think the difference is in approach.
As an artist, teacher, art judge and sometime writer, my presentation of art history has been related to art techniques and colored by a degree in religion. I have tried to show art in history in relation to art today and art makers in relation to the world around them. And . . . I want the contribution of women to be important. I think somewhere there might be a need for my kind of book. It just won't be black and yellow.