I look out the window at Jake’s as senseless chatter falls around me. Another car backs in between the white lines dictating the orders of where to be. Ready for a quick exit, its grill stares back at me. A point of interest finds my ear bringing me back inside, only to lose my false interest as words pile up in my brain without any true meaning. Shadows mix with the glaring sunlight as people move about. It's that time, the morning sun charging through the East windows, turning everyone to silhouettes of colorless figures. Lost to this sight that demands my interest, I'm alone now, painting in my head.
Chatter, again, gets lost in a fog of noise as the blinding glare on the floor forms a pattern of intrigue. Figures mix with the floor becoming one shape, a black abstract. A touch of color holds fast in the paper flowers decorating each window. Bodies blend together. Whose legs are whose? Like a moving puzzle I try to fix arms and legs to heads I see. Finding a way forward, my mind begins mapping out a painting and seeking bits of color.
Figures exit Jake's, gaining back their colors as they do. Watching subjects leave, my painting fades a bit. Those white lines return to emptiness as the chatter grows louder and words take on meanings again. What was discussed is a blur, but etched in my head is an idea for a panel still in abstract form. Goodbyes are said and I find myself standing, pushing against the door. Holding onto the images planted in my head I walk with purpose to my car, fearing a stumble might jar the rough start I'm seeing loose and send it tumbling to the white lines holding my car.
Concepts are fragile. A word, a sight, a bird call, can shatter them. Sitting in my car a small, loose sketch will lock this concept in place, with scribbles and sure, dark marks to hold it safe, I nod to my friends heading to their cars. It can grow into a color study, and be nurtured into a major paintings with a bit of care and dreaming. Some wither in sketchbooks and lay forgotten for years. Rekindled, when skills match the call or simply when the excitement of a forgotten time returns. Sketching ferociously, the morning images hold true as I believe them to be. Now, safe as can be too, I put down my pencil and head to the studio with thoughts of possible colors adding, to my excitement.
