Painting in oil
I am painting today, in the midst of a weekday off that I never used to have. Using the shifting sunlight as my perspective as I slide oil over canvas.
As with all things I adore, but for which I have no aptitude, painting is something that my father used to do with little effort. My father, the artist. My father, he of little appreciation of the beautiful. It is an odd dichotomy, to know these things of him. That we never had paintings or sculpture in our home, but that my father is a sculptor, a painter, a sketch artist. That some of his pieces are like looking at photos of his subject. Clear, concise, perfect lines perfect balance. All of the things he never achieved in life. A balance on paper, devoid in action. Projection of will and want onto canvas and stone.
As I paint, my lines veer more towards the abstract, my untrained eye goes to color and impact and eschews skill and precision. What comes so easily to him, is beyond my capabilities. What comes most naturally to me, escapes his logic. I understand him in this element, I can appreciate the absorption of self, when lost in the smell of oil paints, in the subtle scratching of pencil against a sketch pad. But I separate.
My nurturing nature has always been to take care of people, before myself. Then when I am lost in overexhaustion and overextension, I explode into a pattern of diabolically selfish behavior. It passes quickly and with great regret. My father is my polar opposite. His tendency is to always think of himself first, then in fits of self exploration or perhaps even pure guilt, he explodes into nurturing. But it is always short lived, it is always forced. His drawings of those times are miles away from beautiful.
They are dark. They are angry.
Yet, I am always drawn to them. To the flame of the feeling that sparked their creation. I can understand the anger, the frustration, the pushing against the invisible walls that hold you in. The longing, to be more, to be different, to be.
My envy of his talent is evident and is as much a part of me as my soul. That he has ceased to create causes fury in me that I am almost unable to contain. That he wastes what I yearn to have, is unimaginable. So, I ran the brush along the lines I have penciled, watching subpar images arise. Perhaps it is the manifestation of an imperfect voice.
Maybe it is the world in my eyes. It will never be as perfect as his creations. But I smile to know, that I am not living in a penciled in world. I do not have to tell myself that things are perfect when they are not. I can see shit and the shine. I can appreciate the perspective that both give. I know when I am wrong and I know when I am good.
He will never have that.
September 10th, 2008 at 4:28 pm
will you show us some of your paintings?
September 10th, 2008 at 4:40 pm
Ditto Painted Maypole. Pweeze?
I can’t paint worth a shit. Damn bristles never want to go where I tell them to on the canvas!
September 10th, 2008 at 4:50 pm
I have come to understand that not everything I have inherited from my father is necessarily bad. But, like you, I am also trying not to be angry that so many talents went to one who does not deserve them.
September 10th, 2008 at 4:51 pm
Painting is as much about process as result….Like life is about the journey.
September 10th, 2008 at 4:56 pm
art is in the eye of the beholder. Being a very sporadic artist myself, i do find it horribly frustrating that I don’t practice my skills more… I am in capable of drawing something realistic. Its always surrealistic, and abstract.
look at the canvas and forget your father. just let the colors tell you what to do. Thats what makes an artist. communication of the vessel. as the vessel sees it. allow, create.. you will be surprised at what you will come up with.
September 10th, 2008 at 5:10 pm
huh. see, I like being diabolically selfish. I want to roll in it.
September 10th, 2008 at 5:19 pm
I’d love to see the painting. I have no artistic talent, so i am wildly appreciative of those who do.
September 10th, 2008 at 5:31 pm
There’s a difference between being an artist and being an illustrator. Illustrators replicate. Artists create. You, my dear, are an artist.
September 10th, 2008 at 5:32 pm
I have a friend who used to say to me, “Use what you got, the best you can.”
September 10th, 2008 at 6:00 pm
Somehow I never knew you painted–how wonderful!
September 10th, 2008 at 6:41 pm
You paint very well, I think, only in a different medium, perhaps, than oil. The images you create are not only solid, clear and concise, but they are also bursting with depth, color and passion, and that, my love, makes you an artist.
So sayeth the Tapdancer, so mote it be!
September 10th, 2008 at 7:09 pm
I would love to see what you paint…
September 10th, 2008 at 7:40 pm
You can certainly write, though. You are wonderful at that.
Your relationship with your father sounds very complicated; the man you describe is fascinating and irritating at the same time.
I hope you are able to escape whatever damage he did to you. The best revenge is to live a happy and fulfilling life and not to make the same mistakes.
September 10th, 2008 at 8:02 pm
I have to agree with The Tapdancer. Your medium is different but you are still an artist. Your pen is your brush and the page your canvas. Your palet of colors comes from within.
Parents, good bad or indifferent, pass their gifts as well as their demons on to their children. This, I think, is just the way of the world. But you, my friend, have taken what fate and genetics have passed on , and made it wholly yours, and beautiful.
September 10th, 2008 at 8:10 pm
Fucker made you, that’s a hard masterpiece to top, friend.
September 10th, 2008 at 9:57 pm
If time can slip away while you are painting, it is a GOOD, GOOD thing. Keep doing it.
September 10th, 2008 at 11:13 pm
I wish with all my heart you could both be all that you have ever wanted to be. That life was a soft and tender place that holds us when we feel vulnerable and fiercely cheers us on when our flames dance with life force.
Love you sister*
September 11th, 2008 at 5:31 am
I love painting in oils, and everything else. Not everything is going to turn out like someone’s else’s. My husband’s aunt is a fabulous water color artist. For a long time I felt I had to measure up to her, but now I know that the only thing I can bring out my of my own head and hands is what’s in there already. Just do them and don’t worry if they are good, bad or great. The best thing about oils is, if they suck, you can sand them down and do it again.
September 11th, 2008 at 7:45 am
You truly have an amazing gift. I am a painter but I dearly wish I could create the imagery with a pen (or keyboard) that you do so perfectly.
September 11th, 2008 at 8:22 am
Darling, your words are your palette, paint, brush and canvas.
September 11th, 2008 at 9:36 am
I wanna see your stuff.
September 11th, 2008 at 10:15 am
Very interesting – the push/pull between you and your father. This post spawns many questions in me about your father, needless to say – and partly bc my own father is so freakin’ clueless and will also never be capable of change, due to his eternal lack of insight into his own effect on others. Sound familiar?
September 11th, 2008 at 11:52 am
Thank goodness that art doesn’t have to be perfect, and sometimes I know that I surprise myself with the end result. Often it turns out better than what I had planned in the beginning…I think just the act of creating helps to free whatever is in your soul…Good for you for picking up that brush! Do we get to see the end result?
September 11th, 2008 at 11:54 am
Beautifully written. I love the way you describe your father and how he is separate/different from you. And, I wish I could paint!
You paint here with words, and it’s lovely to behold!
September 11th, 2008 at 12:16 pm
From one oil painter (who sucketh) to another (who rocketh) – I am dying to see your artwork Flutter.
So therapeutic.
September 11th, 2008 at 2:33 pm
I routinely look at your shared items. You have such a fabulous eye for design and style. I can’t imagine that your paintings wouldn’t have those elements in spades.
September 11th, 2008 at 3:02 pm
I’m thinking you learned from him, not what to be but rather what not to be. It’s funny how people around us offer us gifts, even when they seem a little ugly at first. I’ve been there. I can’t help but be a little thank ful now that time seperates us.
September 11th, 2008 at 3:43 pm
Sweet Jesus, girl. This is incredible.
September 12th, 2008 at 6:33 pm
So beautifully written, just about as perfect as it gets. This is what true art is.
September 14th, 2008 at 6:19 am
This was an amazing post.
September 14th, 2008 at 8:43 pm
I have a feeling your painting is as amazing as your writing.
You are awesome my friend.