The White Ground of My Soul

In the grips of a white canvas, possibilities hold me. Looking for a key to unlock the treasure hidden away to free myself.  A sunset, a still-life, even a nude may hold it.  A gift to myself awaits me with the opening of each painting. Finding my place in the world comes from an understanding of what I do not know, and is the gift every artist finds. Lifting a color to the bare white canvas begins the learning process.

The purplish grey banks of a stream or the pinks of a knee are not the treasure I'm seeking. A model sighs , a bee hums, stirring the moment of understanding as the first stroke of color appears on that white ground that I believe to be my soul. Each color, each stroke is turning the key to the lock holding my gift.  Brush work takes on a meaning as the colors speak softly. I know the subject, but not the moment the understanding will come.

Excitement is followed by disappointment and doubt as the colors fall silent. My palette calls for a cleaning, the model needs a break, Henry needs a pat on the head. His dark eyes tell me to turn ever so slowly. A fresh brush with fresh colors gives a turn to the key, moving closer to unlocking the canvas and its treasure.

Painting is always about seeking truth. I take what is visible before me and reveal myself, both to the world, and to myself, through what I choose to see with each painting. I am there on the canvas, in the form of a landscape or standing proud as a still-life. Even the portrait of Kim is a self portrait. I believe it is that way for all artists no matter what form they paint in. A dancer with jazz dancing, while another picks up the clarinet, each revealing their soul.

My art has brought me to where I am in life. It has formed me, opened my mind to others, and even revealed a writer in me. The thinking that goes into a painting is the strengthening of the creativeness I desire, spilling over to other parts of my soul as I grow as an artist. How else to explain the peace I so enjoy? Pressure and stress have faded as the canvases have passed my easel. Tolerance of myself, I now accept.    

Drawn, If Only With Words

Morning coffee and a toasted bagel at Jake's Bagel Shop. It's Thursday and the questions, answers, and other problems are on the table at Jake's. Nothing is out of bounds for the artist meeting there on Thursdays. Problems with a car? Melissa and Dan take a look under the hood. A possible new scam is discussed and it turns out to be an old scam with a new twist. Is the figure right? Arm looks wrong. Too strong a blue is the problem for another. Compositions and Plein Air painting vs studio work and good drawing. Sometimes it is hard to follow along when an interesting caricature walks in.

A subject for a painting and a switch in my thoughts… just the morning light streaming in through the east windows can turn one's ears off to the problems on the table. An eagle flying up the river grabs everyone's attention. The island across from Jake’s has been captured in different mediums by all in the group. If just a color outside captures one's attention, five minutes of discussion and the tree that holds that color is praised and drawn, if only with words. Then it's onto why one at the table isn't showing anywhere, and another is turning to abstracts while our abstract artist is trying a figure drawing class.       

A second cup of coffee and a second stranger is welcomed into the group. Problems with the internet are solved with the help of the first stranger while the second asks if any of us ever had a real job... Silence comes over the table while Melissa fixes George's phone.