Revelation.

Rilke said that Rodin had grown beyond the sound and limits of a name so that the work became nameless, “even as a plain is nameless, or a sea, which has a name only upon a map, in books and among people, but in reality is only expanse, movement, and depth.” Painting for me has been largely an innocent obsession, an act of faith, a vocation; I was raised with it and live with it, as do others in my family. Phil, Mireille, and my cousin Tom still paint constantly, and still visit the ranch. To an enormous degree we all owe this pastime to Piazzoni. The great Gauguin asked, “Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?” These questions have been largely answered for me through genetic happenstance, enhanced by the love of my parents, aunt, and uncle. I owe them everything. I don’t know if I can ever become a great painter like my grandfather, but I feel worthy of him, and I believe my best work lies ahead. As my friend Harrison once said, “Art is not a sack race.” In any case, by now my imagination has become so entangled with Papa’s that his way of viewing nature’s inner life has to some degree become mine, and my vision is frequently an almost unconscious homage to him. When I wander into my silent living room in the morning before leaving to paint, I look upon the Piazzonis on the walls around me as testaments to honor, love and beauty. They seem like the dawn itself, a perfect presence, perhaps the sun or the grass or the birds. I feel the ghost; I am the three-year-old on the couch again, drawn by the mystery, hoping for the revelation. I always say the same thing, “Thank you, Papa.”

Russell Chatham

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