I brush paint against canvas. Color upon colors until the image I visualize in my head appears. As my brush picks up paint and I spread it across, all other worries quiet. Most of the time anyway. I paint then move back. I have learned I must step back. Remove myself from such closeness to my piece in order to truly see it.
One layer seemingly void of beauty. Tweak this area. Add a different color in another.
Patience. I wait for it to dry. My teacher encouraging me through every step. Giving suggestion, but allowing room for my own vision. The older gentleman who takes lessons at the same time a calming presence as he works diligently filling canvas with small strokes as I brush with wider, larger strokes. He with his small layers and me with my larger. Probably a more telling sign of the patience of his generation compared to my own.
I’ve written about layers before and again I’m struck by the process. Of how slowly the layers form to make beauty.
I am learning to be thankful for the layers. Whether broad, sweeping strokes or small patterns. Both working to build the whole. Not always easy. It’s easy for me to become frustrated and discouraged as the layers individually seem ugly and unformed. I could give up. Let the discouragement win, but each time I sit at the easel facing a blank canvas I remember the layers. And each time I find myself less discouraged when a layer doesn’t appear as the one that says beauty. I know in time that layer will emerge. Each time I find more patience with the process. Each time my heart learns a bit more that it is a process. That beauty will emerge.
856. For sunshine. (2.22.12)
857. For coming to a point with a painting where I am satisfied and happy with it. (2.23.12)
858. For a day shopping in Birmingham. (2.25.12)
859. For chocolate covered peanuts. (2.26.12)
860. For a quiet house late at night with words on the page. (2.26.12)
861. For His faithfulness in the little things. (2.27.12)