A painter immersed in her craft does not pause to ponder opinions, nor profit. She has no time to indulge in daydreams of the potential of acclaim in a non-existent future. Scraps of newspaper and beads of bright green and purple dot the textured material surrounds her red patent leather clogs like confetti about to be swept away after Mardi Gras.
She has chosen to create where others are destroying. A quiet and modest balance. Blissfully consumed, she makes no time to think about what others might see in the shadows of a redwood tree emerging on the canvas. She adds violet light at the tips of each branch on the North side and fills ebony shadow on the other. This pleases her eye, and intuitively she continues in this sufi dance until the music in her mind reaches its conclusion.
All things go.
Her graceful stained fingers move over the brushes in the coffee can. Each brush beckons, “Choose me, please! I want to be your conduit!” Even her tools sense how easily she can organize devastatingly beautiful arrangements of pigment and material rescued from scrap heaps. Making something out of nothing is her habit when the door to the studio closes. The voice she hears most clearly and welcomes with an open heart is that of her divine muse.
She stands back into the morning light, her hair aglow, considering the layers in her red clogs, now smeared with turpentine. In this moment she might be the most luminous being I’ve ever seen, and my memory is temporarily erased. We are all shuffling through space with some vague sense of needing to “do” something, “be” someone while always becoming... and becoming again, into something different.
This moment is all there is.
I remain hypnotized, feeling slightly embarrassed to be seduced by the work of a painter minding her own business. Lest anyone confuse this intensity with romantic love or desire, this is not that at all- it runs far deeper into the spectrum of humanity. We tend to go there when we feel something intensely, thinking sexuality is the answer. It is not. For me, art - specifically painting - is a form of dance that can provoke a visceral reaction.
The painter will die someday, just as I will. Who knows when. I consider how to let her know how much love swirls around her curly head, but words can only be clumsy in this profound moment, so I remain silent for a long time. This cathartic magic transforms me to a child tugging on her apron with one hand, grasping dandelions to blow like little parachutes in the other. The process cannot be rushed. She thanks me for the wishes and pats me on the head before dabbing azure blue and salmon pink for the jays perched in the redwoods. Even Bob Ross would be pleased in this form of theater with the Sufjan Stevens soundtrack.
While she plays in a spectrum of light, a sense of rawness feels comfortable. Time stands still and life clicks into place, excruciatingly and immaculately interconnected. It is a dance of loss and sheer joy. Anything outside of the canvas ceases to exist in this new reality. Just for now, we do not panic over the loss of healthcare or human rights, for we are delivered and alchemized into a more potent spirit that transcends all things. Each movement is vivid and raw. A soul moving through a body slashing and dabbing at a canvas appears bolder than its two dimensional form.
In her trance, she nods her head slowly to the music reaching it’s crescendo. The moment is temporary and fleeting and deep in my chest in the place I try so hard to hide, I feel that ache.
Welcome, saudades! So here you are again. Have you come to stay this time? The metal and plastic speakers shiver as my tired eyes pool with tears. I can see the eyes of my loved ones who have died, and consider all the ways I failed to be generous with my offering of love. If they could only see what has become of me, how their love transformed me, they would suffer no doubt.
Sufjan Stevens may have such an effect upon his listeners because he is not afraid to be vulnerable, but my tears are of sheer joy and a recognition of impermanence. Memories of birth and death that wash over everything to remind me that I am alive. So alive. His lyrics temporarily tattooed over every inch of my skin as I stand shivering, observing this life-affirming creation. Again, I fall in love and forget myself.
“I fell in love again
All things go, all things go
Drove to Chicago
All things know, all things know
We sold our clothes to the state
I don't mind, I don't mind
I made a lot of mistakes
In my mind, in my mind
You came to take us
All things go, all things go
To recreate us
All things grow, all things grow
We had our mindset
All things know, all things know
You had to find it
All things go, all things go
I drove to New York
In a van, with my friend
We slept in parking lots
I don't mind, I don't mind
I was in love with the place
In my mind, in my mind
I made a lot of mistakes
In my mind, in my mind
You came to take us
All things go, all things go
To recreate us
All things grow, all things grow
We had our mindset
All things know, all things know
You had to find it
All things…”
I leave her studio and move about the day. There is always a deadline, a play, a track meet, a leaky pipe, a broken meter, a dog with fleas, another errand and a bill that is lost. I rush around too often like a self-loathing tweaker on meth, but my my body calls the shots and dystonia in my feet and hands prevent my ever-ambitious plans. A twinge of self-pity creeps in. All I can do is beg an unheard prayer for mercy, “Just for today. Please offer respite. My family needs me. Why must I suffer so?”
The lessons will return until they teach us what we need to learn. What is it I am to learn from this agony, loss and grief? I drop another sympathy card into the mailbox (this one for parents who lost their son) with a mixture of disillusion and powerlessness. What might I create in the world that alleviates some small portion of collective suffering? My hands may be small, but they are good with tools such as paintbrushes, musical instruments and pens.
I feel such a small hand reaching up and tugging on my tank top, soiled from my battle with a sprinkler head gone awol. Since my children are now taller and grown, and rarely reach out for physical affection and the tug is like a memory and quite unexpected. Finally I pause from my focus on the painful process of uncurling my toes to take her in. The small face asking for attention is a version of me at age five or six, still hopeful and curious. Like my daughter, she is still trusting and this time I will not let her down.
It’s time to embrace whatever is tugging at you. That subtle tap on our shoulder, the whisper into the curl of your ear making you shiver, or the irritating roadblock that forces you off-road and onto unfamiliar paths where you meet and learn to love yourself. Let your mistakes go! ALL OF THEM. Ask for forgiveness when it matters, but let it all come and don’t flinch. That deep and humbling truth about yourself is there for a reason. Embrace it. Let the child shine through you as you put one shaky hand on your own warm chest and whisper what we really are:
Human.
Human.
Human.
I recognize the the pain in your eyes, beyond the distracting mask of surface impressions. That thin veil you’ve grown accustomed to is barely covering your birthright of pleasure, relative safety, love and spontaneous joy. Don’t ignore the unexpected. Lay your worries down for a little while and take that hand tugging on your shirt. Can you feel her innocence melting your burdens?
Remind her that you that you have no intention of abandoning your body, no matter how much pain you must endure in life. Do this for her, the ever-present child skipping along beside you. Let her show you the happy trees. You can still do most of the things expected of adults, but keep in mind the truth that exists in simple moments and the endless magic found in the mundane.
Lyrics, c. Sufjan Stevens. The song is Chicago from his 2005 album “ILLINOISE”.
Mad respect to Jennifer Perlmutter, a gallerist, mother, wife, sister, friend, and inspiration. Thank you Liz Eisinger for your editing prowess! Thank you muses, divine inspiration and love.
The cover image is from a visit to the gallery during Lara Dutto's installation, The Peace Chamber. The painting shown below was born before my eyes, from Jennifer's astounding imagination. The model happens to be a new friend. I always meet interesting, kind and engaging people at Jennifer's shows. She attracts such people. Imagine that!
