Painting a Story – A Metaphorical Tone Poem on ‘Writer as Artist’

 Painting a Story – A Metaphorical Tone Poem on ‘Writer as Artist’

Michael Field

 

 

You don’t know the artist, but she is a friend of a friend, and, for purposes not yet revealed, you have been invited to her studio to watch her work. She opens the door with a smile and beckons you to sit in the one uncluttered chair. Without words, she makes it clear that her focus is her art and conversation is a distraction, so you settle into the silence, open to the experience.

You look around trying to glean some hints as to what will come. The artist looks like a hippie who never left the commune and, for a wistful moment, you are taken back to your college days and the bohemian lifestyle you eschewed for corporations and conventionality. The studio is a comfortable space, tastefully, yet not overly, decorated. Whimsical objects from foreign travels intermingle in disorganized fashion with the trappings of daily living. From the art that is visible, no one theme stands out; the overall impression is of color and line forming moods rather than images. Multiple easels hint at several works in progress, however, all but one are draped, providing promise, not substance, of more to come.

The one undraped easel holds a small, blank canvas, barely large enough for a vignette. The artist stands before it, palette in hand, colors chosen, the story the canvas will tell in her head but not yet committed to the gessoed fabric, not yet shared with others.

With skill that comes only from experience, the artist quickly frames the vignette then composes the image, brush flying from palette to canvas and back again. At first, your eyes see only colors and lines. Soon, though, the colors touch your emotions and the lines trigger resonances, and you see the picture forming in front of you. Then you realize that you are no longer in your chair, you have been drawn into the world being created by the artist. You aren’t looking at the picture so much as you are in it, letting your senses speak its story to you.

This is not a sunny day, fluffy clouds picture. The artist has recently experienced the death of a loved one and is processing her grief through her art. This story is not about the departed; it is about the grief the departed has left behind, the love which no longer has a beloved. The picture is only half painted yet, already, its colors and lines have made you feel the pain of separation. In a dark, hollowed out space, you can see the loneliness of losing a life partner. Off to one side, a troubling cloud of doubt asks accusingly if the inevitability of death could have been staved off by a different set of choices.

You look around the unfinished space the artist has created for you and realize that there are no details, no defined objects. Colors and lines coalesce here, dissolve there. For the artist, the point is to inform your heart, not your head. To let you reside for a time in her world, to know some piece of what she knows. She will form a bond with you through secrets shared; she will open your eyes to universal truths, hidden yet accessible to all who seek them.

You remain immersed in the canvas as the artist applies the last few brush strokes. Her palette is not all grays and umbers. Its job almost done, her brush now dips into brighter hues. The luminous colors and upward sloping lines hint at a path to a sunnier place just beyond the frame of the vignette, a path not taken today yet waiting there for another day. These colors and lines hint at new pictures to come, of canvases telling new stories and images alive with yellows and whites - evocative tints present on this palette though barely used this day.

The artist puts down her brush, sets aside her palette and steps beck to look at the still wet canvas. You find yourself back in the studio, the hard, wooden seat of your chair reconnecting you to reality while, in a very real way, the amorphous world of the canvas remains inside you, still informing your senses. No words are spoken as none are needed. The painting has told the artist’s story; spoken words won’t change anything as the oil of the paint has permeated the pores of the canvas. Your eyes reach out to those of the artist and simply say, “I see you.” The mouth of the artist curls up slightly in an enigmatic smile as she waves her arm around the studio with its mute, draped easels. You understand that there is more to her than this one story but that will be all for today. With a nod of appreciation, you turn and see yourself out.

Now home, you unlock your door and step into your empty hallway, emptied by the recent loss of your beloved. You listen expectantly for the familiar sounds of her presence, but there are none. You look hopefully into the rooms opening off the hallway, thinking she will be there waiting for you; but, one by one, each void reminds you of the hollow space where your heart used to be. On impulse, you gently call out to her, words of greeting spoken a thousand times before. The silent echoes of your “I’m home!” come back at you in crushing waves of grief that threaten to push you back out through the still open door behind you.

Immediately you are transported back inside the painting in the artist’s studio. All the emotions, all the pain the colors and lines evoked come rushing back. The artist’s story and your story are one and the same. That was your purpose for going there, to experience that painting telling your shared story. The Artist is creator, the beholder - co-owner, of the truths revealed.

Reality returns and you look around you, the familiar space now foreign. Your home is strangely stark as you removed all traces of her; yet, somehow, she remains a presence. You realize you have mindlessly walked from the hallway into the kitchen, source of so many shared meals. You are hollow inside but not hungry. Looking around, you wonder how the once white cabinets turned gray, whose heavy tread left umber stains on the tiles beneath your feet.

You recognize the gray and umber as tints from the artist’s palette and you are back inside the painting, kitchen smells replaced by those of oil and linseed varnish. You once again hear the painting’s story in your ear. Your eyes flit then lock, your memory refreshed. Luminous colors and upward sloping lines have caught your attention, lifting you with them. But then you are left suspended. The painting has started you along this path, but the way before you is amorphous blends of colors and lines that fade in the distance. The story is not yet fully told.

What is clear is why you trekked to the artist’s studio. All paintings share a common palette; all stories tell of shared experiences. That realization returns you to your kitchen. You stride to the window, its curtains tightly drawn, keeping others from seeing your sadness. You throw them open and there, unveiled before you, are all the wonderous, luminous colors from the artist’s palette. You turn back to your kitchen, to cabinets white and tiles beige again. Suddenly, you realize you are hungry.