I was never one for magic — I mean the “magician” kind. I guess I was always afraid of disappearing.
I didn’t have the words for it then. I’m not even sure I was aware of what I was doing when I began to write and paint at five years old. But I knew how it felt. This creating something. An extension of myself on the paper, through words and images. When I would present it with two hands to my mother, just outside of my bedroom door, she would stop whatever she was doing. Whatever occupied her hands at the moment, be it dishrag or mascara, she put it down, and gave me her full attention. And never was I more seen. My heart. My being. On full display. In full acceptance. The warmth that bounced between us seemed to light up this hallway stage, and I thought this was the only magic I ever needed.
When my father left, and my mother felt sad, I could feel that light begin to dim. I wasn’t going to let her disappear. I began writing about her. Poems, prayers and promises. On sheets of paper. On pieces of wood. And the stage changed from house to apartment, to apartment again. But the magic remained.
Maybe it’s the way with all artists. We begin to create to prove that we exist, and then continue to show the others that they do too.
I was only a few strokes in yesterday when I began to cry. It’s my first painting of Grandma Elsie. I wasn’t sad. Nor nervous. I hadn’t even yet called on the magic before it dropped in. She is coming to life in my studio.
I guess it’s the same with real life — the more we see others, the more we connect, the more we feel alive. Now that doesn’t mean you have to paint. Or write. But you do have to connect, however it may be, to keep that light shining, bouncing between. There are a million different forms it can come in, but I suppose it’s always love — love is the only magic that keeps us from disappearing. Ever seen. Ever alive.
