“Would anyone know?” If I were to buy a plastic, mass produced, artist palette from China to hold the paint that I applied to my next painting, would it make a significant difference to the outcome?
I suppose it was my grandfather who first taught me that I must be that anyone. Riding on his tractored lap, I asked if it mattered if the rows were straight? Yes, he said. To who? I asked. To me, he said, it matters to me. And so it was on the farm. For everything. To act like it mattered, like it all mattered, even when you were the only one in the field, under the apple tree, or resting on the front stoop.
So I take the time, and not the chance. I make a template on my computer. I cut the wood to fit my hand. I sand, and sand again. Because I am the one. It is my soul, that transfers from heart to thumb to wood to brush to canvas. I am the anyone that cares. And this is not a burden, but a gift. For this and every question of the day that begins with, “Who is going to…” — (I look to the gentle wood that reminds me) — Let it be me!
