Speed Painting at Fabyan Park

The house on the corner catches the morning light. Its cool shadows cause my foot to ease off the gas. “Micky, Marty, Melvin,” I hear myself half whispering. Fond memories of calling their names through the screen door. Their mom's face appears at the kitchen window as she does the dinner dishes. A horn brings me back to the present as I glance in the mirror.

Fabyan Park is calling as I turn onto High Street. Sketchbook and pencils riding shotgun, are ready for a morning of work. Pen and writing paper in the back seat, in case people are sleeping in. Stringing words together is another of my joys, letters and terrible poems keep my restless mind and hands happy.

The roads hold striped cool shadows and warm rays of sunlight. I cross over to the West side of the river where there are more trees lining the road north. Light and shadow are my inspiration, whether in the studio, or out painting a farm scene.

Picking up a Diet Coke, the day begins with sketching the park’s “wisdom-givers”, drinking their McDonald’s coffees. A few new, old faces in my sketchbook, a refill, and I'm back on my way.

Fabyan Park is where I study people, get inspired, and practice my drawing skills. A watercolor may come about, at times an oil. It’s just about drawing people and giving my imagination a workout. Two women with babies set a rush in motion to find a blank page. Wild lines lead the way into my drawing. First, gestures fill the white page, then more important lines build the scene. Canvas, paints, and brushes are soon replacing the sketching. Only what is necessary is placed on the canvas. A leg, an arm, a stroke for a head of hair. This is what I practice for. Speed painting at workshops I now see working. Finally they leave, and I'm left to the background and my Coke, with a hint of turpentine.

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.