Twenty-two stairs up to my room, 207. It becomes a studio when I enter. A small space of 20x24 feet. Floor tiles missing from a couple floods, splattered paint on the floor from years of walking about with painted souls on my shoes. The morning sunlight streaming in through the west window, the nearby casino's glass dome directs the sun's light straight to my easel each morning.
Hot chocolate made, oatmeal raisin cookie heated, I'm about ready to begin my day. Walls filled with memories cause me to pause as I take in each painting. Maddie smiles out at me from the sunflowers I gave her, her little brother remains an angel, sleeping in another painting. Both are grown now, but here in my studio they remain young. Couldn't hold A.J., their brother back, he left for Canada a few years back. Josephine still holds a spoon full of yogurt and strawberries as I look around. Kim never gets to that next chapter as she reads her book and Amy is forever studying for that big test that worries her.
Gifts of trust and respect are in paintings. The nude, a poem written with colors and a gifted hand. We first draw to gain knowledge, then paint with colors to release that knowledge alongside the feelings we have gained. For a while we hold the soul of another as we put them to canvas.
I roll out a rug from beneath the model's stand so feet will remain pink. Heater in position, colors out and brushes ready. These rituals are important for me, each brings me close to being the artist I wish to be. All that I have learned over the years needs to be at hand. How I place a color or a brush stroke is part of who I am. The shape of an eye or an ear is who the model is, the way it is portrayed is who I am. That balance of model and artist is the art.
