Brush Strokes

Have you ever stood in front of a painted canvas and truly contemplated the depth of each and every brush stroke?

I have. I’ve stood in front of and absorbed exquisite one-of-a-kind masterpieces in various museums. I’ve curiously compared reproductions of paintings locally with a personal twist. Either way, there is something inherently magical and unique in every creation. The colors chosen. The texture. The individual and the collective strokes. Witnessing the finished design and pondering whether its existence was planned, or not. There is something multi-dimensional and otherworldly available in taking the time to absorb and truly appreciate every tiny detail and the visual story the tapestry of paint creates.

There is so much to observe within every creation. The amount of paint caked on and left behind after the brush passed over and lifted off of the canvas. Was the stroke an intentional width and length? Do some lines rise above the others? I appreciate the brushstrokes that do not necessarily fit in, for rarely does one tiny line have such power to stand boldly unsimilar to what surrounds it.

Brushstroke after brushstroke, compiled upon one another giving strength in numbers. Depth. Character. A common purpose. Even the type of paint evokes a certain response such as a soft watercolor, blended, muted, dulled, soaked into its medium. Brush strokes command some attention, not too much, just enough to be noticed if one pays close enough attention.

Painting truly is an art. There is a flow, a time, and a space required in which it feels appropriate to begin to create. Or an awareness of when it is time to leave it alone, for if you mess with the integrity too much, it becomes a blob, a smear, a mar, a mistake.

As the paint dries it becomes permanent unless painted over again. Finished in its entirety, will the creation be hung, adored and loved or judged and cast aside? Overly critiqued and trashed? Worthy of being framed? Patiently waiting for the right person to discover? Will it remain timeless and of value when presented to younger generations? Eventually its environment will likely destroy it. Water. Heat, Humidity. Nature. Degradation.

So many brushstrokes compose who we are and what we observe in life. Through thick and thin, the lines we create build upon ourselves and one another. Will we withstand the sands of time as long as there is someone to admire we ever existed?

When I begin to paint, I feel fear arise within myself. Staring at a blank canvas with a sinking knowing I’m going to mess up. In my mind, the task requires an element of perfection. The vision in my mind has to translate into something understandable. Comprehensive. Contain beauty. Be created with intent. Exist with purpose. More than anything, it involves trust within a divine intelligence, greater than myself to flow through and inspire me, for I am no da Vinci.

I am enthralled by Van Gogh. In particular, "The Starry Night." I saw it in person once in New York after years of adoring it upon print, my memory of experiencing it's brushstrokes is what prompted the reflection. I was filled with deep emotion and reverence when I stood before it. Tears of both saddness and joy welled up inside myself. I did not want to cry in public so I choked back the unexpected tears. I stood off to the side for as long as I could, tracing as many details within my mind as I could. I did not want to walk away. How long is too long to stand in front of a painting within a busy crowd of art seekers eager to take my place? I left the room out of duty, only for my heart to be magnetized back again numerous times standing anonymous within new crowds. I knew this was my one chance to bear witness to this painting that still captivates my heart along with the painter's life story. What level of torment existed within this creative genius mind, never to experience the richness, the recognition, the legacy of the pieces of a master's life leaving its influence and mark upon the creative material world?

Too many times we hear the stories of a life's toil and effort not gaining popularity or true appreciation until after the artist's death. For those living and truly embodying their artistic gift while still alive, there surely is a level of pride blended within this seasoned mastery behind the brushstrokes of someone consciously living out their purpose and potential. Beauty. Confidence. Admiration. Personal style. What is it like to have your name showcased within a gallery? For your body of work to be recognized containing so much value only the elite can afford to own your name written in the corner? Is such a creative gift hoarded or shared with the world?

What is it about the depth of history, of textures, and colors that makes me want to break the rules and to reach out and touch such exquisiteness while guards stand alert and velvet ropes or cameras keep me away in safe distance? I touch it all over with my eyes and etherically with my fingertips, contemplating what the artist may have been feeling, sensing, thinking as the wet paint flowed with just the right amount of resistance across the canvas making ripples like a boat within a sea of potential, leaving behind beauty in its wakes. So many countless brush strokes and sections to evaluate. Did that go where it was intended? What is the emotion underneath this creation? Joy? Frustration? Contentment? Awe? Despise?

Life is the metaphor and compilation of many brush strokes. The ebb and flow of emotions. Trial and errors. Correction of mistakes. Wisdom arising out of learning and practice. Do we appreciate or continuously critique and try to alter our own creations? Do we mess with perfection or admire the simple yet complex beauty of what is or will alway be?

Beauty is found within the eye of the beholder. Will I allow myself to stop long enough and experience the world of art, the depth of texture and creations surrounding my every movement? To my Creator, am I the brush or the paint strategically placed throughout the interwoven canvas of life? What legacy shall I leave?