Our Purpose Isn't in The Green of the Trees

As artists we are given the gift of holding a soul in our hands with each subject. Whether it be that of a fallen tree or a clear blue sky, it is the soul of our subject that inspires us. Our choices of colors, which brush feels best - it’s all being revealed through the soul of our subject.

A model may reveal their body, but it is their soul we are looking for as we work. A face, weathered with age, wears it in the wrinkles that came from years of smiles, or frowns of worry and pain. As artists we are given the privilege of seeing and holding it. It is when we understand that privilege that we also realize it is our own soul we seek, too. While on that hunt to capture a likeness of our feelings we also reveal their kinship to others and the gift of a greater understanding of the world.

Our purpose isn't in the green of the trees or the rosiness of those cheeks that we hold so important, it is in knowing who we are. A clear vision of ourselves forms on our canvas or in the watercolors that run across our paper, and that is our prize and reward. The ribbons, the gold medals, those huge checks are all incidental compared to those feelings that come from within when we see who we are in this world.

Drawing on the Past

Following mom to the rhubarb patch behind the garage, I was about to learn how to pick rhubarb the proper way. Mrs. Martin was making a rhubarb crisp and in need. When I was 10, neighbors shared what they had and rhubarb was something we had. Back then we had a dozen plants. Mom showed me where to grab each stem and how to pull it off. With a big butcher knife mom whacked off the leaves of a dozen stems at once. The leaves went on the compost pile with the bad apples and tomatoes that had rot on them.

Arms full of rhubarb, I cut through Mathew's yard and Mr. Assell's, to Mrs. Martins. Mrs. Martin was picking pears in exchange for the rhubarb. The people who made the neighborhood were always there to help when I was a kid. Like racing to take in the wash before rain when their neighbor was out on a Monday wash-day. Mr. Adam used dad's extension to clean out his gutters. Neighbor ladies took my brother to his therapy when he had polio. Mrs. Martin was the biggest lady I’d seen, 6'4" and always in black. Even her aprons were black. Dad did various things for her, and Mr. Assell did the clearing of the gutters for her. Mom said she was in mourning for her husband, and I learned that was why women wore black.

Tagging along with mom, I got to know all our neighbors and they got to know me. It was how mom knew everything I did. Telephone party lines informed neighbors of events and happenings in the neighborhood. Mathew's basement was where grown-ups went to vote. Scout meetings were held in Lion's Kitchen. Katie Listenster had sewing-bees. She looked to be a hundred but was twenty-five, she was born on Feb 29th 1856. Mom liked explaining why Katie only had birthdays every four years. Dad fixed the neighbor's electric motors and he and mom ran dances for the teens at the K of C club.

Some of these memories inspire paintings, and sometimes the paintings bring back the memories. A still-life of flowers in a blue Ball canning jar reminded me of Great Auntie Ann. One summer Mom was in need of more jars, and Auntie Ann offered hers. I tried one of her apples that sat in a bowl on her dining room table. Didn't like it, it was made of wax. Memories of her dining room inspired another painting years later. Helping Katie Listenster inspired a painting for my model Anne to pose like she was teaching her nephew to cook. Sometimes paintings seem to come out of nowhere, but halfway through I'll recall something from my past to draw on.