My father and I were talking about art today, and he showed me this video of the work of the late artist István Sándorfi. Maybe I’ve been foolishly in the dark about his art, but I was completely captivated by what I saw. The raw, yet surreal way he captured the female body in particular communicated so much to me about the way that not only society, but we as women, see ourselves. I saw resiliency, torment, invisibility, beauty, and the unfinished stories of who we are. It’s beautiful and sad and I want to cover every inch of my space with it.
My father is effortlessly talented. He sketched out this picture of my late grandfather a few months back, and again, left me wondering why I can barely color inside the lines, yet he can capture someone’s entire essence with a no.2 pencil. His hands are talented, rough and worn from a lifetime of work, but he can create such fine textured beauty with them. When I was a kid, I used to love when he’d have clay on the table, playing around, and would sculpt me a rose, each individual petal with detail that always surprised me. As an adult, I look at his work, and feel a bit of sadness that he never had the opportunity to pursue it in the way that I know that he would have liked.
While I definitely didn’t inherit his abilities (see: my high school self-portrait), I think I did inherit his appreciation of aesthetics, and eye for beauty and detail. So thanks, Pop, for teaching me to see the world a little more clearly.