We are inspired by the ordinary, consumed by beauty, and slaves to ourselves. Without rewards, we press on with passion driving us. Alone, we examine ourselves. Colors feeding our souls as we grow, lifting us higher. For one, an old boxcar sitting abandoned on rusty train tracks ignites a spark. They offer a canvas and time to meet the calling, and bring themselves to the dream they pursue. Feelings of a past can be nearly forgot, then are called forth by the rich, rusted colors catching the sunlight. Those colors, and the memory, are the treasure at the end of our rainbow.
For others, it is people crossing a rain-soaked street, rushing to catch a train home. Neon signs, and the mix of tail and headlights dancing before them in the downpour. Each sees something different. These images for us are like a child captivated by the first sight of a Christmas tree, blinking with tinsel and colored lights. Art awakens feelings.
A stand of trees becomes something else with the choice of colors chosen. Thoughts unintended come forth. Even a simple still-life of toys can bring about darkness to some. We accept the well thought-out comment with equal grace, as we seek the praise.
For me, art is traveling the roads of the past. Seldom does a work in progress grow without some form of the past guiding my hand and my choice of color. Sylvia, a model I often hire, becomes my cousin MaryAnn. She reads below her back porch, shaded by the old plum tree full of fruit, just out of reach of tiny hands. Her barn cat cautiously finds a comfortable spot for an afternoon nap. The scene grows from nothing as Sylvia lays her textbook down to begin work. Closing her eyes, I am alone to dream out a painting.