Inside Another's Shoes

Poems and vignettes written with paint are expressions of the artist. White hair and beard catching the sunlight silently greets the artist from a park bench. A nod becomes a warm feeling we pass on through our painting. Hope, in another painting, of a young mother breastfeeding her baby. Painting is sharing moments and feelings. Sunsets and waves against the rocks. The rewards are tears and smiles for the trips in time we give people. Colors that blur hate, or lift those weights calling us to stand straight. We open our ears while putting people inside another’s shoes. 

Each day artists move people to see and feel. Norman Rockwell shows us who we are and could be. Lifting a paint brush for the first time frees up feelings in us. Whether it be an abstract, a painting of a child or that remembered sunset, we are expressing ourselves. We learn the language of painting through desire. There is no right way, no wrong way, no perfection. Art is a gift we give to strangers, the helping hand when someone is down.  

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…