Every painting, no matter who holds it in their hands, belongs to the one who painted it. A wealthy collector might buy a piece and squirrel it away for his own pleasure, or an entire city can feel ownership of a single object in a museum. But those are just details for the insurance policy.
In the end, it is the expressive act that is most tangible, and that remains the artist’s. His ideas, her conflicts, their concepts make the thing. The rest of us are left to admire it, or question it, or to fret over it.
And so the artist can do what he pleases to his possession, blurs its lines and melt it into impressions, reduce it to squiggles, dots and cubes. Or in the case of Eduardo Sarabia, create a perfectly precise beach scene and then bomb its surface with