“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!
On my way out of the art store yesterday, I saw it, the “Color of the Year.” And the first thing I wondered is, (I’ve always wondered) who decides?
We were asked on the playground. In the classroom. By adults. Our friends. It was one of the most frequent and popular questions — “What’s your favorite color?” I suppose people thought it was such an easy question. No thought or controversy. Just simple. And I listened to them pull the answers out of the their holster so quickly, with such fluidity, such ease – Blue! Red! Orange! Bang!
Why couldn’t I do that? Why did I have to give it so much thought. Why, at even five or six did I struggle? Who could pick I thought? All the colors – they had so much importance! Yellow for when I needed cheering. Blue for calm. Green was a longing for bare toes in the grass. Tans for the gravel that led me home. No one wanted to hear that. The thoughts raced through my brain — just shoot, I thought, pull the trigger – just say blue! But I couldn’t. I loved them all too much. So I began explaining to the blank faces, the eye rolls, the far off stares, the backs walking away.
And maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage, but for Grandpa Rueben. He listened. He looked directly at me. And if he were to walk away, his hand always extended back. He knew. He told me, often. You decide. Whatever the situation, he repeated it — “You decide.”
The world has always tried to direct, but now more than ever, we are bombarded by “influence.” (My apologies to Dominique, he hates the word.) And I’m still wondering, why on earth do we need it? Why do we need someone to tell us our favorite color. Moreover, why do we even need a favorite? We get to decide. Daily. We get to grow and change and love what we love, who we love, when we love. Neither my heart, nor my palette can be boxed in.
You can choose Mocha Mousse for your favorite color this year, if that’s what it actually is — if you love it, really love it — but remember, you get to decide! And you get to change your mind. You get to be you! Bang!
There is a color to Paris, I thought like no other. The earthy tone of warmth. Beautiful, not because they had been spared, but just the opposite, because they had come through. A palette of empathy, not asking you to blend, but a knowing and welcoming nod. A grandeur of grace.
My mother had that. Before we knew of Paris. Before we even dared speak of beauty itself, she taught me of grace. In the earth tones of survival, she found something beautiful. And I took to it like a dream. I carry it with me, her with me, every time we visit.
At my friend’s house last week, I stopped in front of a photo. It was of her parents’ farm. I stood for a minute. Drawn in, not exactly sure why. But then I noticed it. Could it be? So far from the Eiffel Tower? This same earthy palette. I suppose you could chalk it up to the color of old film, an aging photo, but I felt it too, this same feeling. Again, maybe it was because of my grandfather, my mother, or our recent walk through Paris, or maybe there is beauty in all things that survive, that grow, that keep becoming.
I smile because someone just wrote on my post that my mom is “still teaching us.” I think it’s true. Possible. If, no matter where we are, we keep walking in grace.
It’s no surprise when my color palette sneaks from canvas to canvas. It happens quite often. When painting in blues, I gravitate from sea to sky for several images. Currently I’m in the greens. All colors are available all the time — one could be grabbed as easily as the next. But I think it’s because of what I see. After painting Margaux on the balcony of Marseille, the greens of bush and tree were everywhere. The light that changed this one green from yellow to nearly black, was called to me. Greeting me from the breakfast window, on to the morning path…everywhere a welcoming. You could say, “Well, sure, it’s France, it’s beautiful…” and yes, that’s true. But it’s not the first time I have been carried in this palette, lifted by this light.
My basement bedroom in Alexandria, Minnesota — yellow and green. It was the first time I got to choose my palette. From carpet to bedspread, that one windowed room gleamed bright with possibilities. I’m not sure it was even a year. The house was sold. The neighborhood got small in the rearview window of the small moving van. We left without bed or spread, but the color remained. It still does.
I suppose it’s always been about what you choose to see. Loss or opportunity. Pain or growth. Because within every palette of life’s journey there is the spectrum of color. The same green is lit bright, or shaded black. Knowing you can’t see one without the other.
I can’t tell you what everyone sees. But I know it’s different. This is painfully clear from the daily news. From balcony to gravel, we all have a different view, a different perspective, a varying palette. But maybe the “them” and “us” of it all could be replaced with just different shades of green. And we could see each other, really see each other, as we navigate from color to color, sharing this palette, chasing the light.
It’s not like we were told, but I think we all assumed we had to pick one. By October in each school year at Jefferson Senior High, we fell into line. Jocks, Hoods, Preppies, Nerds, Geeks. Some of us tried to hover between band, the gym and English class, but the differences were clear. Sometimes even uniformed. The only thing I was sure about was that everyone seemed so sure in their roles. Perhaps they thought the same about me. I wasn’t.
I suppose it takes a long time to build a soul. A life. Along the way you discover parts. Tiny sparks of color that make you feel a little bit more like yourself. You grow and change. Adaptations often more regular than choice (maybe these adjustments are the real choices).
Looking at the palette that makes up my latest creation, I smile. A dab of this. A stroke of that. This collection — this beautiful mess of colors that make up my life. Yes, I am an artist. An author. But I dip my brush and I bake. I dip my brush and play yard sports with the kids. I dip my brush and travel. Play fashion show. And read. And build. And change. Stroke by stroke, I am given my wings. Not confined by stereotypes or assumptions. I am my own blend of feathers. And one way or another, I am going to fly!
The amount of reasons not to do it had to be plentiful. It could be too dry. Too wet. Too hot. Not warm enough. The tractor could fail. His body could fail. Grain prices out of his control. And yet, I never heard my grandfather complain.
Sitting on his overalled lap at the card table he only spoke of the current hand he was playing. He and the chosen three adults laughed, accused, pointed, shook heads in knowing victory, slapped losing cards on the table, and kept playing. Oh how they loved to play cards after a full day of farming. And when the sun came up the next day, he walked past the card table, pocketed his pipe, and went to the field that was given, worked it accordingly, without complaint. Each year turning it from brown, to green, to gold.
Yesterday at our family gathering, (a multi-national event), I was speaking with my German niece in English in the French countryside. “I don’t have enough time,” she said. “And I’m sort of afraid,” she continued. “And I could fail…” She offered up reason after reason not to paint, even though she claimed she wanted to. She was looking so far ahead. Beyond canvases painted, sold and shipped. A business created, and what if that failed, all before a brush or tube was even purchased. “You could just paint a picture,” I said. I could hear my grandfather’s voice deep from within.
He never played next year’s hand. He farmed in the day that was given. What a lesson to be learned. I remind myself constantly. Because I, at times, can get way too far ahead of myself as well… with all the what ifs of tomorrow. But really, we only have this day. And I choose to make something of it.
It occurs to me as I’m typing this, the answer to one of her questions. I told her I was working in my favorite palette. Stroke by stroke in these moody, earthly colors. She asked why I loved it. It’s so clear to me today, it’s the hand I was given.
For a short time, when I was but a short child, I lived in a green house. It was under a blue sky, lit with the brightest yellow sun. It was a time when blue and yellow did, in fact, make green. And everything made sense. Then we moved to a brown house. On the same road. We broke apart, each of us. Nothing made sense. And I spent years searching for my palette.
I asked the same sky, under the same sun, every day, “Please, can you show me the way?” The sun continued to smile, as if it were already telling me. “What?” I asked the yellow. “Where?” I asked the blue. One day I looked down at my shoes, my travel weary shoes, stained with green. A smiling sigh. The blue got bluer. The sun beamed. I looked back at my shoes. How long had they been carrying the answer? Carrying my palette. My home.
They come out so easily now, the colors of my heart, as I live and paint each canvas. Because I know where they are, these comforting colors of my palette, my love, my home — they are, as they always have been, carried within.
