Today, I started with grey and blue heavily mixed with water, they dashed and dripped downward, making their own way with happy freedom. Colors washed over each other, changing, becoming, never staying the same. The thick paper became heavy with layers and depth, wrinkled and full of details and secrets.
For a brief time there was an arrow and a bird, but they didn't stay, they were only temporary, leading me forward. As I swept the brush over them, they did not cease, but became part of the canvas, giving way to new possibilities.
And then scraps from torn pages, seemingly insignificant pieces became the focal point. Sometimes, the very smallest things are crucial to the forming process. So many colors and drips and smears in the painting.
Mixing and dipping the brush and meeting the page, over and over and over.
Layers were peeled off and sections were wiped clean.
Until it was done. In the way that God created the world and when he was done, he stopped and saw that it was good. It’s like that and so cliche, but you just know.
I thought about the process, how so many times I was unsure of the outcome and I wasn't exactly sure what I was creating, but I knew I must continue, I knew it would come and make all kinds of sense at just the right time. I wondered if people would see it and be overwhelmed by the uncertainty, when all I saw was this great sense of peace in this act of surrender. The surrender of letting the paint fall and the colors mix, allowing the layers to build a foundation. Being open to the uncertainty, and hopeful of the results.
This story of the creative process, it’s the story of us, isn't it.
Are we the paint, the brush or the artist?
And won’t it be so much easier if the brush stopped trying to be the artist, so that together they could create something beautiful?
For a brief time there was an arrow and a bird, but they didn't stay, they were only temporary, leading me forward. As I swept the brush over them, they did not cease, but became part of the canvas, giving way to new possibilities.
And then scraps from torn pages, seemingly insignificant pieces became the focal point. Sometimes, the very smallest things are crucial to the forming process. So many colors and drips and smears in the painting.
Mixing and dipping the brush and meeting the page, over and over and over.
Layers were peeled off and sections were wiped clean.
Until it was done. In the way that God created the world and when he was done, he stopped and saw that it was good. It’s like that and so cliche, but you just know.
I thought about the process, how so many times I was unsure of the outcome and I wasn't exactly sure what I was creating, but I knew I must continue, I knew it would come and make all kinds of sense at just the right time. I wondered if people would see it and be overwhelmed by the uncertainty, when all I saw was this great sense of peace in this act of surrender. The surrender of letting the paint fall and the colors mix, allowing the layers to build a foundation. Being open to the uncertainty, and hopeful of the results.
This story of the creative process, it’s the story of us, isn't it.
Are we the paint, the brush or the artist?
And won’t it be so much easier if the brush stopped trying to be the artist, so that together they could create something beautiful?
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