A thousand strokes of color pour forth as the canvas begins to speak. Listening to the silence for a hint of direction, I find the path and slowly lift the clouds of doubt. Every painting starts with confidence but travels the rough road I lay out for myself. Too much confidence & too many voices. My own voice is muffled. My reason for the canvas on the easel sometimes needs to be refreshed. Ideas fight each other as I paint.
Once I lost my way and the painting on the easel had to rest in my attic for ten years. Then one day, when I was ready to sand the canvas clean, it spoke to me and I was ready to listen. What I tried didn't make sense but it worked, and a work of art was suddenly on my easel. I had discovered art and what it meant to be an artist. My paintings didn't have to be works of art to others, only to myself.
I stopped copying what I saw and began painting how I felt. I stopped going to famous places to paint and began searching out places I was familiar with and places that meant something to me. The moon over the landscape with fireflies was the ride home from a day at Uncle Melvin's farm. Live chickens in burlap sacks in the back seat with us kids. I could feel those chickens under my feet as I painted that scene of the moon. The smell of garlic and coffee came to me doing a windowsill scene of Katie Linster’s window.
People used to have scrapbooks full of memories. I have paintings tucked away for memories. A portrait of Jordan's dad is one. He blew me away with his straight forwardness. A painting of Jordan breastfeeding Josephine lifts my spirits when down. Josephine, playing pick-up-sticks with my paint brushes pauses my painting of a farm. My mind wanders but my hand continues to work, laying in those thousands of brushstrokes.
