Art Could Be My Voice

Why did we sing happy birthday to Mrs. Linster on a summer night when her birthday was February 29th? “Someday you'll understand," was Dad's answer. Mom was the voice of compassion, pointing out the good in people. Dad was the voice of reason. When Mom told us to turn the other cheek when a bully hit us, Dad told us if he hits the other cheek, hit him back. You might take a pounding but he'll think twice about doing it again. A boxing lesson in the garage behind Mom's back was some of Dad's advice too. 

When people tell me I'm blessed with talent, I think about it and think, rather, I was blessed with great parents. Mom with her passion for flowers and exposing us kids to people, and Dad telling me to study - not just in school, but with my drawing too. Walter Foster art books were part of that studying. Mom said art could be my voice, since speaking was not one of my gifts. Neither was singing…

A Road of Time

Just a perfect day for painting - puffy white clouds riding a warm breath of air through the cobalt blue sky. I pause to take in the scene before securing my canvas to the easel. In the distance, voices of joy mix with the meadowlark's call to a mate. A black bird carries strands of last year's dried grasses to a thorn apple tree. New life surrounds me as I lay out the colors of spring. Delicate greens decorate the poplar trees standing guard in the distance. Those young leaves protect the first blooms of spring that sparked the artist in me. Young voices come from the trees and specks of color race about. 

Like the bees around me, I tend to the business before me, that of capturing a moment. I find there are moments where life is clear, where I am intune with myself. The spider exploring my palette, were I younger, I would send him off somewhere - to spider heaven more than likely. Now I just direct him away from the pale green I just mixed, with a simple  warning.  Painting has done that to me, given me a greater understanding. As my painting takes shape, I see how I got to this place in life. A road of time lined with people and problems. Grandparents saying it's okay, Uncle Henry showing me how to spit watermelon seeds, Dad planting values, and Mom showing colors.

Bits of me are all over my canvas. Time to lay down my brushes, clean my palette and put on my winter coat leaving summer to be finished tomorrow.