Something Different, A Picture by Frederick Richardson

Sometimes when I think about what art is for, I think about this. I had a book when I was a little kid (actually I have it still) called Old Old Tales Retold. It was written and illustrated by Frederick Richardson. It probably belonged to one of my parents before me, because it was really old, and published right about when they were born. Because I was a little kid, or maybe because I thought I might be an artist, I scribbled a little bit on some of the pictures and on the end papers. I feel bad about that now, but at the time it seemed like the thing to do. I remember the feathers on the birds, not depicted here, reminding me of the flesh, those juicy little cells, of a grapefruit. Best of all was the house of the Three Bears. When I was about eight or so, and my mom loved to hunt for antiques at Billheimers in the Mission antique district in South Pasadena, I saw sturdy oak craftsman furniture. I had no idea it was Stickley or Limbert; I recognized it as the Three Bears' furniture. When I had my own apartment, and it needed a rug, I went to a rug store, and there I found the rug of the Three Bears; it was a dhurrie rug, which may or may not have actually had bears on it. I think my point is that there are pictures which embed themselves in your consciousness and non-verbally illustrate your life. Just as there are tunes from as far back as you can remember, and you dance to those tunes as you make your way through life.

I have no art of my own tonight because I listened to music instead, and the drawing I attempted in the dark is pretty crumby looking.