The Big Reveal
I mentioned a while back that I really dig the artist Mark Ryden. His works are intricate and disturbing, which I find endlessly fascinating. He repeats images, like a hidden puzzle, like finding Waldo.
With Chagall, you expect floating figures and bright colors.
With Georgia O'Keeffe, you expect cow skulls and flowers.
With Mark Ryden, you expect children. Meat.
When I was about 10 years old, I stepped on a bee while walking outside, barefoot. It scared me more than it hurt me, but I still made a big deal out of it and cried to my mom, who calmly got the stinger out and applied a compress of baking soda and water, and dosed me with yummy orange children's aspirin. I cursed the stupid insects, and wished them all dead. My mom, in her 'even-steven' way, reminded me that bees are the only way we get honey, and the best way for the flowers to become pollinated and grow so beautifully.
There are few things that startle a bright summer afternoon more than seeing a bee near you, in your food, locked in your car. They wield tremendous power, without meaning to. We're afraid of them. Yet, without them, we would miss so much sweetness, so much beauty.
Ah, the dilemma.
When I saw the bee in this Ryden painting, I felt I had to have it. The stance. Innocently waiting to see what will happen. Will it fly away? Will it fly at me? What's the story?
I took a copy of this painting to my tattoo artist.
He did a great job.
This is it from a distance:
And this is a close-up, without my hair in the way. (Damn, I have a lot of freckles back there.)
I like it. A lot. Of course it's a bit itchy and still technically healing, and it freaked out the boy-child when he first saw it. And my boss couldn't wait to see it today. It didn't hurt so much. It was actually a pretty pleasant experience.
I'm gonna get more.
As long as I have obsessions, and as long as I don't run out of hidden places to put them.