Thousands of Brushstrokes

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. 

Set Your Mind & Hands Free

Evening colors soften as they drift over the landscape, and birds soften their songs as the last rays of light fade away. The day's end awakens something in me that I want to hold onto. Grey greens leaning toward blue, crest the trees. The once blue sky surrenders to pale yellows, and cotton white clouds turn to purplish blue as the sun falls in the West. Before answering night's call, I take in the scene, reviewing the play staged each evening and I commit it, with its actors, to my own play, writing it with paints and brush work. Carrying me into sleep, I will see my canvas come to life in dreams. 

Painting grips me at times. It's how I see, how I feel. A homeless man asleep on the loading dock grabs me and the only way I can tell his story is through painting. The flowers I paint are memories of Mom. The realism and tightness that drifts into my work are the guidance of my Dad. I lose my way at times and those efforts are scraped off. Too many voices speaking to me at the same time.  

The passion for a subject brings about the right colors and leads me to a good design. Over thinking a painting leads to a dull, overworked canvas. Set your mind and hands free. I tell my students, “Don't copy what you see, paint what you feel.”