Dennis Hollingsworth

A Day in Nice

I had the pleasure of meeting collectors of one of my paintings this weekend, the circumstances being the need to repair the painting they recently had bought from one of my galleries. It was a large painting, measuring eight feet in the largest dimension and my armchair forensic analysis is that while it was securely packed within the wooden crate, somehow the lid had suffered an impact and the plywood flexed dynamically downward, snapping one large centrally placed monad (my name for the spiny sea urchin/ erizo forms in my work). It looked like it was a single event, forcing jets of paint to eject out of two lateral sides. Ultimately it was a small fix, requiring a dermatological-like excision and replacement with another monad.

The key issue for me is to restore a field of intention across the surface of the painting, banishing all accident I didn't accept in the creation of the work.

I didn't know the collectors beforehand, most of the communications coordinating the overnight visit were conducted via email. The husband met me at the airport, and we nearly missed each other since they were expecting someone who looked like the visage of Miguel Marcos, the portrait of which I have placed in the colophon advertising the upcoming show we have this September 28th. He (the collector) had printed my name on a small card, one that in a passing glance I didn't notice at first since I always expect my name -Hollingsworth- to require a card at least a half meter in length. At least that's the way it seemed to me since first grade when I usually had to linger on my penmanship assignment while everyone else was excused to the playground. It was funny to find someone via cellphone who is standing together in the same place, same crowd.

Like I said, I didn't know what kind of people I would meet: maybe they would be Russian Mafia where I would have to get patted down for weapons and repair the painting alongside tables heaped with cocaine... maybe they would be world weary transvestite entertainers a la "Cage a Follie" and I would have to part garlands of feathered boas to get to the painting... or maybe chronically overweight bankers rigged with oxygen tanks aside ashtrays of spent Cuban cigars, assisted by sexy nurses who would pat his head with perfumed embroidered handkerchiefs.

Well, almost.

I was fortunate to meet extremely interesting people who work in the telecommunications field. And that's about all I should say. One must be careful to remain discrete. (If I might fail in this regard, it's not for lack of trying.)

Although I'd love to tell you of our conversation.

At the house, we placed the painting atop the dining room table and after the repair, we relieved the heat of the day with a swim in their pool as cicadas draped a sonic blanket over the afternoon. The conversations ranged freely, deep and candid. Their two delightful children played and warmed to the strange new visitor as the day passed. We ate dinner at the nearby hilltop town of Mougin, a night where the village invited a horde of artisans to festoon the streets, ornamenting our delicious dinner with a thick street ambience.

By the morning, I asked their daughter to draw my portrait.

Very nice.