The Artist That I Dream Of

It is when the model and I become aware of the other, as a person, that art begins to come forth . A spoken word echoes through the studio like a call through a canyon. It's just the model asking “is this right?”, that snaps me into the fact another person is here in my space. Till she awakens me with that question, I am in fear of that blank canvas staring at me from the easel. A wash of color gains some control over the canvas. A senseless line here and there, and then colors take on some meaning for me, freeing me from that fear.

Unsureness also drifts away from the model as my arms show signs of me working. The meaningless talk that comes with first stepping into the studio turns to caring conversation as Kim takes to posing, and I to seeing. A shoulder drops ever so slightly and gains importances. Kim's gaze lowers ever so slightly as she describes her boyfriend, which causes me to adjust a color and a shape. A bond builds and brings forth meaning to my painting, turning it from a simple picture to art for me.

Each day I hope I can be the artist I dream of. The skills and the tools are there, it’s just that last little thing that eludes me… Even after years of painting, there is that conversation with myself about simply painting or creating art. I know when I finish a piece, if there was an artist or simply a painter in my studio working. Having others tell me is important, but it's really only if I am amazed at what I've done, that I will know the answer. The answer may not come in a day or a week. Paintings lean against the wall, facing in, for some time before I get up the courage to face them. I may be nearing the finish of a new piece before I face the former finished one. It will express itself as if another had laid those colors to the canvas. When I’ve succeeded, I will ask, “how did this painting come from me?” I see no signs of struggle, no doubts, just the peace it gives me.

Waiting to Play

Twice a year the ladies of St. George’s and St. Michael’s fill Pigeon Hill with the sweet smell of baking bread. It means no playing cowboys, no red light-green light or hiding the button. It means pulling my brother's rusty red wagon from under the back porch and following mom around to our elderly neighbors to see if they want some homemade bread. Brown paper bags and the butcher knife wrapped in burlap means a stop at the garden. Mrs. Hass lets us use her empty lot for our garden, a victory garden. I didn't know why it was called a victory garden. My friend Donny, who knows everything, didn't seem to know either, just that it was called a Victory garden. Everyone had one, he said. Now, flowers replaced potatoes and onions in many of those gardens.

Kathie Linster was our first stop, a widow who had just turned a hundred the past February. She was a leap year baby, something I would have to ask Donny about. She always reminded me, if I had been born a day later I wouldn't have a birthday every year. It was never a “yes” or “no” about wanting bread, there was always the visit. At Kathie Linster's, her dog Sportie would hide under the stove and bark at me the whole visit while mom talked in another room with Mrs. Linster about some potted plants. There were plenty of potted plants in Kathie's kitchen. I liked potted plants, mine was a sweet potato growing in a glass of water. Mrs. Linster had plants growing out of milk bottles, no dirt in the bottle, just water. I could see the roots and through the bottle to the outside. She had a plate with a portrait painted on it hanging over the sink in front of the window. A painting of a boy fishing was taped next to the window. Sportie kept barking as I looked around. Mom and Mrs. Linster returned to the kitchen, they had been talking about a man who had hung himself the week before. Between Sportie’s barks I heard a bit of their conversation. I wasn't supposed to hear what they were saying. Mom had forgot Donny and I were there that day playing when Mrs. Bash screamed from her upstairs window that Jack, her husband, had hung himself. Mom tried to explain about Mr. Bash, and we ended up saying a Hail Mary for him.

From Mrs. Linster’s, it was off to Mr. Kishs' with more visiting, only it was on his porch, where he seemed to spend his entire day watching us kids play. We visited with a couple more people, getting a few more orders for bread and some requests for rhubarb from our garden. We filled the orders for rhubarb, green beans, peas and baby carrots before heading onto St. Georges Hall for the bread. Passing the Jungle Brother’s garden, mom took in a long look. It was a feast of colors. Their irises were in full bloom, mom just stood there. I could feel her dreaming. If it weren't for having to feed five kids, mom would have only flowers growing in our garden. I was more than willing to give up the brussel sprouts and broccoli for flowers.

These days I find myself doing paintings from those visits. My cousin Lisa brought irises up to my studio last year and I did several color sketches of them, remembering mom and the Jungle’s garden as I painted. Many of my paintings are trips back to those days with Donny, and waiting for mom to let me go play.