Deciding on a subject to paint may arise from the simple desire to use a specific color, while other times it may be chasing the challenge of perfectly capturing a vision. Along the way, those reasons for creating a painting may grow. Still wanting to find the perfect blue, something else may awaken on the canvas. Memories may push through, or questions may arise.
Taking paints to Fabyan’s, a forest preserve I love to explore, leads me to a fallen tree. Why the roots of this fallen tree stops me, is the question. Maybe the challenge of those twisting roots? or the saplings growing around it, reaching for the opening in the canopy? Are these saplings the children of this fallen giant?
I set up my easel and lay out my paints. As the white canvas accepts the colors, a memory comes forth. At six or seven my dad took me to my Aunt Marie's house, a little white farmhouse. I loved going there and exploring. A Ford Model T, half submerged in the farm pond, or a butt growing on an oak tree, were a few of the things I wondered about. Two calves, always hungry, were fun to feed the grass just out of their reach to. The outhouse, behind the tractor shed, with its hornets buzzing about. I remember surprising my grandmother sitting in the outhouse once. She’d left the door open to enjoy the view of the orchard with its treats hanging just out of reach.
This trip was different though. A tornado had passed through the side yard. Three giant cottonwood trees had been uprooted. All nine of my uncles were there to clean up the farm. I stood in awe of how big those roots were and what had pulled those trees out of the ground. My job was to stay out of the way. My Uncle John was swinging an ax, my Uncle Paul was sawing away at limbs, and Uncle Henry was breaking up the dirt held by the roots.
Mixing colors for my tree's roots, I thought about that day and my uncles working away as my Aunt and Grandmother cooked hamburgers on a large metal grill resting on stones over open flames. For me it was a fun day. More fun times came to mind as I painted. Playing William Tell with a BB gun, shooting a tin can off my sister's head. Learned my Aunt Marie could really move when it came to stopping such stupid games we played at the farm.
Somehow I managed to complete that painting. The act of painting sometimes unlocks why I’ve picked a subject, too.
