Last night I tried my hand at painting again. I painted a barn from a photo I had taken a few years ago. For not having any training, it’s ok. But… the whole thing is so utterly, and entirely psychologically me. In that regard, I didn’t accomplish what I had wanted to (I’ll get to that in a minute).
I write, because I feel I have control – control of the subject, control of the descriptions, and the sound of the words. I write as a way of exploring, and allowing my ego the room to roam free – in this controlled space. Writing is a bit of a safe zone for me. I know how to do it (mostly). I’ve written a few blog posts about what I consider to be one of my bigger internal struggles – being more of a free spirit. People who meet me and even get to know me a little bit, see a guy who rolls with it, doesn’t seem to care a whole lot, doesn’t seem to stress – and for the most part, that is my nature. But deep down, I also sweat the details. My ex-fiancee, B, was discovering this, and I think this was part of what made her decide I wasn’t a good fit. I have my routines (as a parent – you almost have to). I like to be on time to places. I like to know where I’m going to park. I like to know where my seats are. At the beginning of the week, I like to get my groceries for the meals I plan to make. I am a planner – I block out my days (mentally) based on the the things I need to do… today I’d like to run, get laundry done, get a haircut, etc. etc. I’ll try to do those things in an order that is efficient. I am over-the-top responsible and dependable. These aren’t bad things. In some respects, they make me a really amazing partner and friend and colleague. They are also things that sometimes hold me back. They are things that I’m trying to acknowledge, play with a bit, unhinge, unlearn, set free. As I’ve said, I’ve written a few different times on this “struggle,” this desire to let go. Off the top of my head, my piece on running, my piece on dancing and my piece on letting go are all about trying to learn and trying to be a bit more free. The entire process of being the person I want to find is about that – a recognition that the things I admire in others are often the things I feel lacking in myself. She may not have appreciated the way I moved through the world, but I loved the way B moved through the world (“How to Talk about the Laundry” was my attempt to capture it in a poem). In some respects, she is much more carefree than I am. The simple act of her folding laundry had a grace to it that was mesmerizing. She showed me something entirely new – I will forever be grateful for that. I’ve found this trait attractive in other women, and it’s something I’m actively trying to cultivate – slowly and in sometimes imperceptible ways. It’s a big and beautiful world out there, and I don’t want to be controlled by schedules and laundry and dinner and worrying about where I’m going to park.
My painting last night was a failure in so far as it is not free, original, or bold. Even deeming it a failure is, ironically, a not such a free way of viewing it. The process and the result were exactly what I was able to produce because of who and how I am. I think back to elementary school art and the messy smock afternoons of art class – was I ever that kid? I suspect I was always in control. I think of Bob Ross, and that wonderfully messy palette -all those colors… those happy mistakes that became trees or mountains or wisps of clouds. Last night, as I painted, all of my paints were neatly arranged – the mixing confined to the six little dimples in the plastic paint tray. The painting itself, a representation of something real. I tried to imagine a scene I hadn’t actually seen, and I struggled. I wanted to paint purple black mountains and orange skies, but the vision is never clear enough in my head. I grew critical and frustrated at my mind’s eye. I had to have a picture in front of me. Even when I want to be free, something in me stops me from doing it. Something inside me says, you can’t… stick with something you know. I can paint a rough representation of a barn in a field. It’s a subject that appealed to me enough to take the photo in the first place. Even in doing that, there’s a freedom that I feel like I’m missing. There’s an artists down here, Norwood Creech. We’ve connected on LinkedIn, but we’ve never spoken or exchanged any communication. I check out her posts from time to time, and I always admire the freedom I see in her work. It’s real enough to know what it is and yet free enough to be expressive. It’s a representation that doesn’t strive for accuracy.
I wish I could think abstractly, think more in terms of color and general shape as opposed to actual images. Right now, I’m trying to imaging myself creating more freely, and there’s a discomfort to it – I don’t even know how to start. The other night when I was with my friend Lisa and we were painting… the process involved pouring paint in to plastic cups and then pouring it from each cup in layers in to another cup. When everything gets dumped out, paint spills off the side of the canvas – thankfully on to a tarp. At times I found myself thinking what a waste of cups… look at all that paint that just spills off. This is the part of my mind that I want to switch off, or at least quiet. “Shush, you.”
When I was in kindergarten at Andalusia Elementary school in Bensalem, I went to first grade for a small part of the day to read. I was considered gifted or advanced or whatever they called kids. The very first time I had to go up to the first grade, I remember coming back to my class upset and in tears. I suspect the experience of having to go somewhere new caused some stress, but what I was upset over was that while I was gone, the rest of the kindergarten got to do finger painting. I think they might have been finishing up when I got back, I don’t remember, but I somehow recall seeing all of this color and mess and big pieces of paper with lots of little hand smears and feeling like I had missed out on the best thing ever. That small story seems like the appropriate launching point for who I’ve become. Instead of being wild and free, I went and did the studious and disciplined thing.
I suspect I won’t ever be completely free. If I think of it as a continuum, I’m just trying to move myself a little bit in the other direction. I’m not sure how, or if, I can learn to see things I haven’t seen, create from nothingness (if that doesn’t sound like a god complex…) For now, I’m ok with the process and the effort. It’s been a slow awakening. It’s involved unearthing some curious memories. I suspect one of these days, I’m just going to make a mess for the sake of making a mess. I may even do some finger painting. Until then, I can expect more barns based off of pictures of barns and the slow chipping away of internal structure and form.