Friday, October 16, 2009

Imposter Painter

My grandmother had beautiful hands. Her hands were unreasonably soft when considering the daily toil she spent cooking for her family, cleaning crappie, and tending her gardens of asparagus, red potatoes, okra, squash, and tomatoes. Her fingers were long and well-tapered with slim ovals at her nails that were always clean and simply filed just beyond the tip of her finger. Despite the fact that her knuckles were swollen and twisted with arthritis, her fingers were multi-talented. She hand quilted queen-size comforters for each of her four grandchildren each year, crocheted throws, and painted.

When my sister and I visited we knew to anticipate the dawn fishing trips to the crappie barge where we would spend the day surrounding a 4x4 hole in a tin can, staring at pee-yellow water and swatting flies. At the hottest part of the day we would reel in our lines and head in. On the porch of my grandparents' modest trailer the hot summer breeze smelled of honeysuckle and peach blossoms. There, we would paint. Well, my sister and grandmother would paint and I would dabble.

Sometimes, we'd gather around the kitchen table with leftover sourdough biscuits and chocolate chip cookies made with shortening and other samplings of Mema's cooking. She'd take out the tackle box where cracked and pinched tubes of acryllic paints were lined like the colors of the rainbow. Our inspiration usually stemmed from the back issues of Texas Highways magazines: fields of bluebonnets, a setting sun, windmills, hummingbirds, and lakes--her favorite Texas landscapes. I was always so envious of my sister as she went straight to the paints, mixing, blending, creating a perfect replica of whichever image was before her.

I don't remember ever finishing a painting with my grandmother; I started several, but I never knew where to go on the canvas and I obsessed about making it look perfect. I desperately wanted to see the depth and dimension that my sister obviously recognized in the glossy photograph. I strained my eyes to see the subtle hues and shades of colors, the play of light and shadow to create scenes.

I suppose this desperate attempt to be a painter manifested itself in my house. If I look through the door of my bedroom I see 6 different wall colors (not to mention the bathroom I cannot see which actually makes 7). I love color in my home. White walls are not comforting to me. They do not warm or cool me. Traditionally, whenever I have any span of time, I paint. I've just started a two week span where I will be alone in the house, staring at my motley walls, dying to do something daring like paint them all one consistent color. Instead, I went to Hobby Lobby, lost myself in the paint and art supply aisles, and returned home with a very simple acryllic paint set, brushes, and canvas.

I intend to paint....I haven't gotten beyond color...that maybe as far as I do get. But, I'm needing to pull something that is stewing, rending my heart in two, and put it outside myself. I've tried writing--words have served as a less ridiculous pallette for me in the past--but it's not working now. My heart hurts. It's imploding, caving in on itself, crushing me, and the only way I can think to still the rending is to mix color. I won't go so far as to try to actually represent something physical on the canvas even though certain moments and images are etched on the back of my eyelids each time I close them. They may appear...but again, not through anything recognizable.

So, here I am...an imposter painter...feigning a talent that is not mine out of necessity to breathe a little easier.

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