Standing Up to My Easel
It’s snowing outside and I don’t have to scramble to dash off to work. Instead Anna, Bill and I decided to close the gallery today and have a snow day in our home studios. The fire is crackling, the animals are snoozing and I am at the easel. That has to be my very favorite thing, standing up to my easel.
Whatever comes, it doesn’t really matter. In fact I’m beginning two new pieces unlike anything I’ve ever done before and I have no idea where they’re going or if they’ll end up working at all. But I have this feeling infusing me that’s so rich and wonderful. It’s like I’m full—full of energy and light, purpose, a reason to be.
I scoop paint out of jars with my favorite pallet knife and mix it together, cobalt blue swirling into raw umber, like stirring marble cake mix with my mom in the 50s. There’s something so deeply peaceful about this act.
Then I put brush to paint to canvas—ahhh—there’s just nothing like it. Sheer, perfect, utter bliss.
I have been doubting my work quite a bit lately—looking to others whose paintings I admire and bludgeoning myself with them rather than being inspired. Never a good place to be. I know you all know what I’m talking about—that terrible self-critic telling us our work isn’t “real art”—that it isn’t, in fact, real anything.
But none of that matters when I am here at the easel. It is just me, private, spiritual. This is real. This is what matters. It is like a prayer. If I give nothing else, I give this energy that rises from me when I paint. Let THIS be my gift. Whether or not these pieces come to fruition. THIS is the fruition. THIS is what I was born to create.
Love to you all,