Giving Daydreams

There is something about art that awakens something in you that you may have forgotten, or were even unaware of. I like to think that is what my art does for people. Years ago I hoped to sell my paintings to a Mr. Huff, who was opening a business in town. He wanted to decorate his office walls with original, locally done art. He thanked me for bringing my work to his home but decided against buying my art for his business. He said it was too personal. He was concerned people working for him, and those coming to his office, would be thinking of things like vacation or getting home. He wanted beautiful work that people would love to see, but wouldn't cause them to think about things other than work. "Daydreaming " is what my art would cause, he said. 

The gift of daydreaming is exactly what I give myself. It's something I was born with. Some may even call it talent. Mr. Huff was right. I think my ability to daydream with paints and brushes help others to slip into a better place. I take people to places they would rather be, back to when life was simple. A wife being seductive, or the little girl that you read to years ago.  The farm pond you skinny dipped in, the frog kept in a mason jar till mom released it while you slept. The kindly old neighbor whose lawn you mowed. These are my subjects and the daydreams I give others. 

The brick layer just outside my seventh grade window, building our new church. The milkman bringing chocolate milk to school for my lunch. Nick, the school's janitor, spreading sawdust over a sick kid's morning breakfast. I may not have gotten A's or B's, and even C's were few, but somehow I developed my skill to daydream as I drew the bricklayer and the milkman along with Abe Lincoln and Ward Bond.   

Somehow I managed to get through grade school. I can still feel the ruler and my ear being pinched while drawing Jane, who sat two rows away. Yes, the love of my life was worth coming close to losing an ear for, even if to her I had cooties.

Even now in my studio I dream of summer days as I'm doing a painting of cornflowers. Jane must have grandkids by now, maybe even great-grandkids. Daydreaming and painting. 

Finding Meaning Behind the Subject

Deciding on a subject to paint may arise from the simple desire to use a specific color, while other times it may be chasing the challenge of perfectly capturing a vision. Along the way, those reasons for creating a painting may grow. Still wanting to find the perfect blue, something else may awaken on the canvas. Memories may push through, or questions may arise.

Taking paints to Fabyan’s, a forest preserve I love to explore, leads me to a fallen tree. Why the roots of this fallen tree stops me, is the question. Maybe the challenge of those twisting roots? or the saplings growing around it, reaching for the opening in the canopy? Are these saplings the children of this fallen giant?

I set up my easel and lay out my paints. As the white canvas accepts the colors, a memory comes forth. At six or seven my dad took me to my Aunt Marie's house, a little white farmhouse. I loved going there and exploring. A Ford Model T, half submerged in the farm pond, or a butt growing on an oak tree, were a few of the things I wondered about. Two calves, always hungry, were fun to feed the grass just out of their reach to. The outhouse, behind the tractor shed, with its hornets buzzing about. I remember surprising my grandmother sitting in the outhouse once. She’d left the door open to enjoy the view of the orchard with its treats hanging just out of reach.

This trip was different though. A tornado had passed through the side yard. Three giant cottonwood trees had been uprooted. All nine of my uncles were there to clean up the farm. I stood in awe of how big those roots were and what had pulled those trees out of the ground. My job was to stay out of the way. My Uncle John was swinging an ax, my Uncle Paul was sawing away at limbs, and Uncle Henry was breaking up the dirt held by the roots.

Mixing colors for my tree's roots, I thought about that day and my uncles working away as my Aunt and Grandmother cooked hamburgers on a large metal grill resting on stones over open flames. For me it was a fun day. More fun times came to mind as I painted. Playing William Tell with a BB gun, shooting a tin can off my sister's head. Learned my Aunt Marie could really move when it came to stopping such stupid games we played at the farm.

Somehow I managed to complete that painting. The act of painting sometimes unlocks why I’ve picked a subject, too.