White on Gray

“I saw a paintbrush moving in my mind's eye; I saw jagged red slashes and yellow squiggles radiating everywhere. The image didn't last long. I tried to stay present and off my mind would leap, ‘anywhere but here’ is where I wanted to be. I came back to the (imaginary) paintbrush. Still all red and yellow. Laughing at myself almost before I thought: ‘I hate red and yellow.’ My critic, that trixter, can even judge my imaginary paintings.”

The painting for process study group I belong to has opened an avenue to explore art for more than the end product, of which I am so attached. In the workshops, we are practicing not commenting on, or asking questions about each others paintings. Instead of critiquing, we might ask about the process for that person. What were they feeling when they painted that image, made that stroke? How did it feel? Where did they feel it in their body?

To practice the idea of not commenting on or judging my own art work, I am not going to put any art up yet, instead, here is a campfire from last summer.




When I look at this image, I can remember the feeling of the day at the lake and the smell of the wood smoke. When I try to remember summer in general, however, I can't remember what the trees looked like when there were green leaves. I drive down my street, no images of greenery can I call up.

And then when it is summer, I can barely remember what my street, my town, looked like with winter’s bare branches.

I love the seasons, I love both the riot of green leaves and the varying gray and green-brown structures of the trees, but come January, my mind rebels against winter, wanting to be anywhere but here; not yet ready to believe summer will come and not willing to accept the winter that is now. If I were to paint that, it would be all white on gray... and then a drop of green would appear...