The Sounds of Painting

Starlings chatter away, a breeze moves through the cottonwoods. Sounds lighten the lifting of our paints to the canvas. A deer passes by with a quiet rustle. These are the sounds we paint with when reaching out to nature for inspiration.

In the studio, Mozart or Pink Floyd might energize our palette, allowing us to capture our vision with wistful strokes. The excitement in a model's voice as she relates a bit of her life makes me take extra care to mix a color to match her excitement. Skin against silk, a page turning in a book, the sounds in my studio. The shyness in a voice exhaling in an effort to hold still. The silence in the studio is tense and must be broken.

Seldom do I paint strangers, learning about models is as important as knowing my palette and seeing the difference between an Elm tree and an Oak. I listen to why Kim exposes her son to the different religions in the world. How Rose turned her life around and got her PHD, and how Evelyn became a vet specializing in large animals. Painting for me is understanding my inspiration and learning about the dreams of others. Paintings are journals of moments in my life, both past and present. 

Becoming Creative

Between the sunflowers and pretty girls there was Uncle Bill. Errol Flynn and the flim-flam man was my Uncle Bill. He served under General Patton during WWII. Wasn't married to my Aunt Kay, they just lived together with my Grandpa Matt. A lot of whispering behind closed doors after visits with Aunt Kay and Uncle Bill. A lot of promises came from him. Waited weeks for the cowboy boots he was going to send me from Arizona. He convinced my Aunt Kay and Grandpa Matt to sell their house and move to Arizona. Before leaving he sold my Dad a car for my brother to go to college.  

 That car became my second job before I began high school. Seems Uncle Bill forgot to mention he never had the title to that car or to any of the cars he sold. 

That summer, after mowing lawns and delivering papers, my job was taking that car apart so that on Saturdays my Dad and Uncle John could haul it to the scrap yard. Dad hoped I would learn something about cars. I didn't, only that most parts are heavy, and what a flim-flam man was. 

That summer, Mike Spencer, the neighborhood barber, gave me a set of oil paints, brushes, canvases and a carrying case.  I managed to get some painting done each night after a fender was cut up or a car door was in small pieces. I didn't know it then but that was how it was going to be as an artist for a while - painting would come second. 

Uncle Bill left my Aunt Kay and Grandpa Matt penniless in Cleveland. After more whispering behind closed doors Dad managed to get Aunt Kay and Grandpa back to Aurora, and settled in an apartment in a not so nice neighborhood. As an artist, I was the one to drop everything and care for her in her old age. Putting my brush down to cook a meal and walk her dog was part of life. Sneaking her tea set to my studio for a still-life setup, painting a nude in her kitchen. I also became a bit more creative, like finding the old stove in my place worth doing a painting of. A broken doll also made an interesting subject. I found ways to get paintings done.