Last week I signed 42 paintings. In one day. Why? Because I had 36 abstract pieces from my residency, all stretched & varnished and ready to go except for a signature, plus the six landscapes I'd completed since getting into my temporary studio digs. And because I always put off signing my paintings until the last minute. The last minute (a show that weekend) had arrived. And the only thing I hate about art is signing my paintings.
Really. I do. Don't try to talk me into liking to sign my paintings. Or, even disliking it. Or, as I teach my children to say, "not caring for it." (Haha! I wasn't born yesterday. I knew I was going to be subject to all sorts of aggravating pushback on healthy eating if I didn't teach them an alternative to "yuck" or "I hate zucchini!" In our house, we say, "I don't care for it.") But I digress. Not only do I not like, nor do I care for, signing my paintings.... I HATE it.
Just take a look at this montage of all forty-two signatures that I photographed just so I could share with you and moan and groan about it. Do they all look alike? No. Are they all beautifully executed? No. Did I wipe off and redo and wipe off and redo on several of them? YES. Do I hate signing my paintings? Yes. Don't tell my kids.
