We laid out a fairly large piece of canvas paper across the kitchen table, lining up paints, palettes, and water cups around its edges. Music plays, though we are quiet. Our brushstrokes are sporadic and stiff. We don’t sit down, but remain standing, moving and stepping to explore and fill in the white of the canvas. Soon communication is dialed in. She paints feverishly near me, almost closing me into a corner, blending her paint with my paint. My brush strokes respond with tiny swirls instead of little flicks, changing tone. I move to another side of the canvas. She starts painting over the section I just painted, highlighting it with a blue/white combination. There is no structure, and there are no rules. The only goal is balance.
After a moment she has to stop. She breaks the silence, relenting inner frustration of what to do next. “I don’t know,” she repeats, shaking her head, pacing back and forth. I keep painting, giving slight grins and head nods.
Something was bothering her. I could hear it on the phone before I left. It was late, and she hardly ever calls this late. After we hung up, a thought came to me.
‘Let’s paint!,’ I texted her.
‘OK’, she responded. I don’t think she thought I really meant it. She was thrown off by my arrival.
As I continue to paint, adding new colors and filling in open canvas, she begins to reflect on her day, and to her surprise that I’m actually here painting with her.
‘I didn’t think we were really going to paint,’ she says.
‘Believe it,’ I tell her.
She nods, pours more paint on her palette, and brazenly grabs her brush. With a slight rebellious demeanor, she write Believe in red right across the middle of the canvas. After stepping back and examining, she scribbles a few more hardly legible words. The words are the only thing with form amongst the abstract mixing of colors and shades. They demand all the attention and focus. I’m not inwardly convinced they help with the work’s balance, but want to accept her artistic contributions in full. I take the white from my brush and follow along her letters to accent their existence. Something from writing the words reignites more ideas in her, and off she goes scribbling and blending with her brush in a frenzy. Creativity is infectious, especially when ardent.
It can be a door to a whole different side of ourselves. 6 years ago, I challenged her–my aunt–to do a painting for my mom. I told her to draw it three times and then paint it. She rolled her eyes at first to the simplicity of my directions, but then 6 years later, here we are….still painting.
As the painting progresses, forms and densities begin to emerge, and each of us begin interpreting our own perceptions. At first I see a submerged terrain, and then it begins morphing into a tribal-mask like face. I vacillate between the two visions, bringing forth a little of this and a little of that. ‘Believe’ is still blaring arrogantly from the canvas’ center. Time and again we both get close to paint over it but yet it remains. Herbrush strokes are swirls, now, with an abandoned momentum.
Again, she steps away from the table, plopping her brush fiercely into the water cup.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know,’ she goes again, shaking her head and pacing.
‘You do know,’ I say, not looking up but now filling in little white holes remaining in between splashes and swirls of blended color.
I can feel her eyes on me. She leaves the room, then comes back, grabbing a new larger brush and splotching some purple here than there, then stabbing that brush into the water as well. I do the same.
‘Today has been one hell of a day…’ she begins.
‘Tell me,’ I tell her with a nod. My eyes follow her as she paces.
A day of past, present, and future concerns. A day of triggers, fears, empathy, and the simple need of being heard. A day of not knowing why, but yet unable to think of anything else. A day of limits. A day of feeling the density of the surrounding walls. A day of wanting to be protected, but free of constricting fears. A day of feeling like a bird in a cage. I day of not knowing whether belief is enough…
After we let her words settle, she breaks the silence with a laugh and the regrabbing of the brush. I follow suit. The air is lighter now. There’s still a tension, but more of anticipation than escape. From collateral creating, our brushes begin obstructing the blazing word in the middle. It still demands attention, but begins to bleed into its surroundings. She begins dabbing the whole canvases in dots, as I begin flicking wet blotches of color. This boils into a frenzy, where again, she tosses the brush into the water, stepping back with a head shake. This time its more of an accepted tone, but the words are the same.
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
‘You do,’ I tell her, now blending my blotches into her dots.
‘I don’t like the ‘Believe.’ It’s just too much,’ she says. ‘No balance.’
Without verbalizing, I begin coloring in the different shapes the letters make. She joins in and soon the word is all but blended over. Balance begins to emerge. We both become invigorated with new ideas, and begin adding colors with an improvised sense of deliberation. The music becomes more noticeable. We are almost dancing now. Our brushes cross back and forth across the canvas without the least bit of hesitation. She smiles as she begins dipping her fingers into the paint and smearing with abandoned confidence. I do the same feeling as if a part of me is sinking into the paper.
We step back when it’s done. We couldn’t explain how we know it’s done, but we do.
‘You were right,” she says.
‘I knew you knew,’ I tell her.
‘Sure, she says.
We stare at the masterpiece. Without any words there is plenty to read.
