So, there were only ever 14 Sam Grinsborg paintings (an old pseudonym). I sold six of them. The rest, I spectacularly destroyed with an exacto knife, in an oddly public tantrum at an art gallery where I was having a disagreement with the management, just before I stomped out of the state in a huff.
One thing you can say about me at 20 years old, or now, for that matter (because people never change), is that I have the temperament of a spoiled child sometimes.
Now, I've talked about this a couple times already. About how I saved a couple of paintings when the gallery threw away what was left of them. Climbing into the dumpster to pull them out. And I told you about how I stitched and taped a couple of them back together, giving them to friends I felt I trusted, just before I left.
But...
What I haven't told you is the last time I brought this up on Facebook, another old friend who I don't talk to enough reached out, and got me in touch with one of those friends, who she still stays in contact with. And now, we know, or at least have some idea that at least one of those reclaimed paintings still exists. It's on a houseboat, in the Bahamas.
That's super interesting by itself, I think. We talked on messenger for about an hour the other day. Also turns out, I had given him a handwritten book of songs and poetry collages I made too, which I had totally forgotten I had made.
And in that book, is a fragment of a song I wrote at 17, which was sort of the catalyst for my initiation into Dadaism. It's called Nothing.
I've decided I'm finally going to reconstruct the missing pieces from memory, and record it.
So you'll get to hear it, if you decide you want to.