Dear Sandra,
I have just finished reading your letter for the third time, and I would be lying if I told you that it did not upset me.
I know we have had our problems in the past, but as in all relationships, these things take time and take a lot of work. It was never my intention to be ‘difficult’ or ‘hard to reach’. I am my own medium, and I can’t give that up, I won’t give that up, and it is not for the sake of history, it is who I am through the fat and the lean of it.
Just as there are many different kinds of drawing, types of installation, and styles of music, you can’t say that all of us paintings are one and the same. I, for one, have never been one to lie about space. I would like to think I am as flat as they come. And I am never one to hide under layers; I always wear my wash on the surface. I want people to see me for who I really am, what I really am, and you can’t expect me to make apologies for that.
I remember so vividly, the first time we met. I could sense your excitement and curiosity from across the room, although I could tell that you were trying to fight your enthusiasm from the start. Maybe you didn’t want to jump in with both feet, or maybe your friend Text was all like ‘Sandra, that painting is oooold news, girl! And nothing but trouble with a capital T!’ So maybe it wasn’t just about you rebelling against your father Modernism, but maybe you were just trying to define yourself, and you can’t deny that we haven’t been through so much together. Funny thing, Etta James’ “I’d Rather Go Blind” has just come on, and I can’t help my surface from cracking over the thought that we’ll never be together again.
But, you know, the more I think about this as I write, I wonder if you were ever really fully committed to this relationship as you once pretended to be? There were numerous occasions when you would go on about how great our relationship was to our friends, but even then, I sensed that you were not fully invested in making us a life-long commitment. But I stuck with you. And not because I felt that I was important, but because I felt that you were important, and through time, maybe you could become a great painter, and I could become a great painting: together. I see now, however, how I was blind then, by that thing called ‘love’, but I can also see only too clearly how it was never meant to be. Oh! And how about that time I caught you with performance!?! You, hopping all around a room in the dark, and on a foot that wasn’t even yours no less! Thought I forgot about that didn’t you? Well, truth is I had, until your letter brought it all back.
Sandra, I do not think you are a terrible person, nor do I think you are a terrible painter, but you have said some very harsh things that I would have never thought could have come from your mouth. You have made some extremely hurtful accusations that I can’t bear to get into.
As you can probably tell by my ramblings, I really can’t think straight right now. I can’t even say if this comes as a shock or if I saw it coming all along. I should probably stop writing before I say something that I might really regret.
Maybe this break is for the best.
Forever yours,
Painting
Xo
(Trevor Kiernander,
