Mrs. Bergstrom surely had the patience of a saint. She wrote the words on the black board in a slow and strong cursive that, if you hung on to the chalk-ed endtails, it could carry you from seat to sentence to story. The chorus of the “sounding out” rang above our heads as she tried to reel us all in. With chalk pointing and pronunciations mouthed and exasperation released by hands smoothing out her pencil skirt and her perfectly bunned hair, she urged us, willed us, into being taught.
I thought of her yesterday, on hands and knees as I struggled to stretch the new canvas. Pulling with one hand. Willing with brain. Begging with heart. Stapling with the other hand. How hard I tried to make it taut. And I thanked her again. Not just for the letters. The words. The storytelling. But the patience. The work itself. The joy she would have felt in the comparison — the strength in being taught, the strength in being taut.
Tight as a drum, my new canvas awaits. I don’t know the subject yet, but I know it will come. I have the patience to wait. I have Mrs. Bergstrom to thank for that.
Showing them the studio for the first time, I was explaining that the 8’ frame that holds the painting of these people in the water was once holding an Indian motorcycle, horizontally. The Indian sold rapidly. Needing to ship it to another continent, I took it off the frame and rolled the canvas. And while it has been long replaced with these people now bobbing in the deep, I always feel the need to tell them that first there was an Indian.
I suppose that’s why I share the stories of my grandparents, my mother. Because long before there was an artist, me, there was a farmer, a dreamer, a dancer. And even as I type this on a different continent, I am part of it all, part of them. And to tell my story properly, they need to be recognized.
It’s never just one thing. We are not one thing. As the motorcycle rides a wall somewhere in New England, I can feel the breeze. And with soiled hands, I do the work of the day. With a sparkled vision, I see what’s possible. With a daring heart, I spin around the room. Love comes first, and seems to be all that lasts.
What was it all for, if we didn’t have a little fun?
When I’m starting a new canvas, with an old canvas, (something I painted before and it wasn’t quite right, or a vintage canvas I found) before I start the new painting, I have to gesso (paint over) with a fresh color. Just one color. A brand new start. A clean canvas. Maybe some can just paint bit by bit over the old, but I need a fresh start. A new clear vision. No obstructions. As I was doing this today, I thought, if only I could do that with the obstructing thoughts in my head.
And so I gave it a try. Why not! I wrote down what I was thinking, and painted over it. Let it go. I’m not sure it will last, but for that moment, this moment, it feels good. I will give myself this gift again and again if I need to — a clean start. A fresh start. I smile and begin again.
