Today was filled with musings on various things: kindness, not kindness, desperation, Valentine's day, poetry, Khalil Gibran, Fodor Dostoyevski, Harper Lee. A discussion for a forthcoming gathering of artists, writers, poets, musicians in summer ensued. And then a brave declaration, "I am almost ready to pick up a paint brush," followed by a quiet question to myself, "Maybe this gift of strokes, I have it in me too?"
The lovely Miss Gie says, "If you can write, you can paint. An artist is an artist."
Tita Tess adds, "You can still learn."
I have no answers from my end for now. I read somewhere, "To arrive is to imprison." I abhor walls. And yet, down in the recesses of my consciousness, I am the very manifestation of bricks laid on top of the other with the mortar of stubbornness and hubris. I am not the entirety of who I am now, I gently tell myself. I can expand, grow, progress, transform. Yes, I can. And I shall. Perhaps I already am.
The Master Artist retouches the demo painting he made for our young Artistes at the start of the session.
During the workshop's 7th session, as they worked with watercolor for the first time, I remember him admonishing them, "Do not see this as work. Love what you do." And they really do. Despite the crease in their foreheads, their eyes gleam. To witness that gleam, to have created the conditions for the gleam to happen is a privilege.
This traveling to the seemingly unfamiliar-- places, people, time, a manner of living, leaving, returning, I love more. More than arriving. This constant state of motion, the unsure footing, is where my heart is sated.
He stands up, hands the painting to me. My palms open, arms extend even before I know it. I accept the gift.
This heart is full, Sir Billy. Daghang Salamat.
(Watercolor Painting by Artist Billy Pomida)
No comments:
Post a Comment