Though I’d been searching for a painting for above the fireplace for years, I’d gotten used to that expanse of white. When we finally found the one, it took a while before I got used to its presence. I’d walk through our door and feel a bit startled by its beauty. In it I saw an incredible floating island, a place that, like a vivid dream, skirts the lines of something you know, but can not know.
I didn’t know the artist – not really. We exchanged a few words once in her studio on a First Friday. On hearing of her passing, I didn’t know what to do with my grief. I wouldn’t expect to feel this ache for someone I haven’t actually met.
It didn’t occur to me until today, but I suppose there’s a strange intimacy in owning art. The painter, having made this singular creation, chooses to let it go into the world. The collector, in accepting stewardship, builds on the story. Between them, an invisible thread.
Rest in peace, Susan Hodgin.