I suppose you could track everything back. Starting with sketches in my bedside Big Chief notebook. To Mr. Opsahl’s art class in Washington Elementary. But to be honest. I didn’t have grandiose plans for it all. I was just trying to stave off a Sunday night homework worry. Or brighten a school day afternoon. But that’s the thing about steps, the smallest of ones, even when you’re not aware, they’re still lifting you.
This little pink bird was the first in my sketchbook. I had no idea how many it would lead to. How they would transform into something larger. But the intent was there — Noting here I can’t rise above. And somewhere, within this attempt to rise, I was gracefully being lifted.
And that little pink bird crescendoed into this 5’ portrait of a woman ready, willing, to take flight. And I’d like to think, if this tiny little bird could do that, that maybe I, we, could do the same. I guess it all comes down to taking that first step.
He could see me eyeing the small frame. I already had one on hold behind his desk at the Emmaus location. Emmaus is the equivalent of a Salvation Army or Goodwill. Most of the employees are those that need the aid of these donations the most. Between our two accents, it was hard to figure out what the actual price was. As we wandered through our attempts, a conversation began. He was from Belarus. He seemed delighted that I was from America. The more we learned about each other, the less I hesitated with the purchase. Soon I settled on “pourquoi pas” — why not!? And I went home, not only with an extra frame, but a story to tell.
And isn’t that what art is, an exchange of stories? For that matter, I suppose that’s what life is.
Yesterday, I cut the small piece of panel to fit the frame. I gessoed. Underpainted. Sketched. Then began to paint the tiny bird. As it appeared, I had to smile, because it wasn’t just coming to France, it was leaving Belarus. He was leaving Belarus.
We are not the same. But we are all connected. And that’s nothing to be feared, but celebrated. I tell this to the tiny bird, who replies, “Yes, chef!”
I have raved through the years about my banana seat bike — the flowers on the seat and basket that could have been delivered from the “Laugh In” set by Goldie Hawn herself. The brightest of pinks, yellows and blues that brightened the gray transition of the end of March, when I received it for my birthday. But I didn’t get there directly from my red tricycle. There was another bike. In between. It looked almost homemade. Perhaps it had been Frankensteined from neighborhood parts gathered in the back shed. It was gray and white. The pedals almost worn down to the stub. It only blurred into the gravel that I was learning upon. Dropped and abandoned in ditches, it still was the one that took me to the brightened glory of the banana seat.
And just as forgettable, I suppose, was the three speed black bike from Sears that in-betweened my banana seat and my electric blue 10-speed. And didn’t I park that bike in the furthest rack away from the playground at Washington Elementary? Not quite ashamed, but close enough that it pangs my heart still.
Maybe it takes awhile to see the value of the things that get us through. It’s easy to celebrate the milestones and forget the random Sundays. Our city is mostly shut down today because of an Iron Man competition. I can lose these hours pedaling feverishly toward Monday, or I can choose to enjoy them as the gift given. I hope I do. I’m going to try. These are the words I’m learning upon.
My cousins had a wood burning stove. Each weekend their family would, as they called it, “make wood” — which meant cutting down trees, then into usable pieces, then bringing to their house. When the teacher asked him what he did over the weekend, as was standard each Monday morning in school, my cousin said they “made wood.” The teacher corrected him and said they probably cut some, loaded some, put it in their trucks, but certainty they did not “make” wood. The next week when the question came around to him, “What did you do over the weekend?”, he answered, “We certainly didn’t make any wood.”
I thought about it yesterday as I began to finish the panel for painting. I cut the piece first in half. Sanded it. Measured to make the frame. Sanded those pieces. Glued them to the back of the panel. Clamped. Sanded again. Then Gessoed. For me, there is a real satisfaction as I rub my hand across the smooth surface, the smell of forest still lingering, traces collected on the tops of my shoes. Soon it will enjoy a new life. Become a painting. And while I know with all humble certainty that I didn’t make the wood, I do know that I am a part of it all — the nature of things. And that feels good.
It’s easy to get caught up in wanting to feel masterful, powerful, useful. I know I have caught myself thinking – I made that out of nothing. Certainly I didn’t. It began, as all things do, I suppose, as a gift. And the best thing, I think, is not to squander. Not to look away. But aid in the becoming. To be a part of it all, to humbly, joyfully, creatively, lovingly participate — that might be, well, everything.
It’s not that I assumed the garage doors had the sense of the birds, but it is made evident whenever the wind blows. (I suppose that’s when the truth of us is revealed.) And, oh, they’re built solid, these blocks of wood and iron, but never a match against the wind. Every time – it’s BANG! BANG! They beat against the garage, thrown from side to side. Always fighting it. Always losing. But then the birds, in that same wind, barely more than air themselves, they seem to dance. Each wing flaps with lessons learned, and risen above.
I’m not proud of it, but I have done my share of banging. Trying to fight off the new storm with all of my wooden might. But I’m learning. And learning again. What used to blow through me, now gives me wings.
My mother never came empty handed. Whether it was for a week’s visit, or a long afternoon, her arms were filled with toilet paper, paper towel, Kleenex, or something frosted from the bakery. It wasn’t that I couldn’t purchase it. It was just another form of connection. And when I poked my finger through the plastic to carry the rolls up the stairs to my apartment, along with her suitcase, I knew that she thought of me, not just here, not just at the events, but on Tuesday afternoons at Cub while picking up some essentials. And I felt loved.
We have a chalkboard in our French kitchen to remind us of those very things. I guess Laetitia saw it when she came for lunch that day. Toilet paper written in white. I walked her out to her car. She opened the trunk. Reached in. Pulled out a multi-pack of toilet paper. I would never refuse a visit from my mother. I held it, her, in my arms at the top of my heart’s stairs. And I am loved.
There’s not a lot of glory in the underpainting, but without it, there really is nothing. Time must be spent to prepare the canvas or panel. Gessoing. Sanding. Long before you get to the “garden.” And oh, how eager I am to jump to the flowers. But I take my time. I paint the shadow of black (one can’t go back later and expect to paint it in). Then the layering of stems and leaves. Creating depth. Perspective (that so often elusive perspective). Once I have put in the time, only then can I delight in the flowers. And having spent the time, oh what a delight they are!!!!! As if they bloom just for me.
It’s hard to remember this in the daily rush of things. The furious speed to get over, get beyond, to get through. But when I’m lucky, (which simply means when I’m paying attention), it’s my hands that remind my heart that tell my brain, “It’s only underpainting…the flowers are yet to come!”
I know the furious speed at which you are trying to get over and around. I have traveled that wind and hung on for dear life. But the dear life I found came only in the quiet slowing down. The letting go. No longer rushing to get past, but easing my way through. And the peace. Smiled. Knowing it had always been there, as I whirled. Peace, sitting quietly next to joy, and hope, and OK now. There, there.
In my sketchbook, all the pages are almost absent of color. Not flesh, nor butter, it welcomes every image, and rests it gently, softly, without judgement. But for the flaps. The flaps are a vibrant red. Already set in tone, they present a different challenge. We call this an “underpainting.” The red cannot help but affect each color applied. And it can be tempting, this coming in hot. There is a vibrancy, a bit of excitement. And so it is with heart and mind.
Sometimes, seemingly without my knowledge or permission, I find myself in the flaps. But this! And that! And they! Should haves and could haves and supposed tos hovering in all that redness. And that’s ok, for a moment. I try not to add to the heat of the color by beating myself up. But rather create a space, where all are welcome. All.
We are living in a time of red. Perhaps an inhuman time. We’re not the first, nor the last, but It is our job to remain human. To love, to create, to inspire, to preserve the goodness. To be the pages that welcome, with all the gentle might of heart and mind.
I don’t suppose one pear imagines another as weak. As being particularly thin skinned, or easily bruised. I think they see the familiar. The comfort. And there is strength in that. Which allows them to lean in, and to lean on.
Couldn’t we do the same for each other? I think we often worry, well I wouldn’t know what to say, or what to do? When all that’s really necessary is just to be ourselves, to be there, beside…pearing…pairing.
I leaned on you today. I’m not sure if you even knew, but I wanted to thank you. I felt you holding my heart. It made me happy. And I was strong. I hope I can do that for you…If so, we can do anything.
I only saw it last night. Could it have come sooner, or was it right on time? Awakening in the thick sky of wee hours, I had left the shutter open, and saw how it wasn’t simply dark, but so black it was blue, like a Magpie. And if it were a bird, this absence of light, couldn’t it just as easily gather those night weary worries under wing? Couldn’t it say, this is not for you to carry? Not now. Not in this light. This is the color of letting go. This is the color of release.
Some say a Magpie will steal anything. I don’t know if that’s true, but if they did, if they do, I decide to leave my concerns above cover, and let them take it. And I give thanks for the thief of worry. No longer bruised, but released by the black and blue of it all. And I am saved.
