"Art is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better."
-Andre Gide
Last night I had a major God-moment. I'm still kinda reeling from it, so bear with me as I muddle through it.
I had been feeling a strong urge to paint for the past couple weeks, but "couldn't find the time." You know the excuse; you actually have plenty of time, but Glee sucks you in with its catchy mash-ups and trendy conflict. The reason, I now believe, I hadn't yet was because I wasn't ready to touch grandpa's paint set.
Dad bought grandpa a really nice paint set for a past birthday, but never had a chance to use it because his health tanked so quickly. Grandpa was a great advocate for the arts, even if he projected more John Wayne than Van Gogh. He had all of his kids involved in some sort of artistic expression, for my dad it was dance. Grandpa himself was a painter. His subject was usually seascapes, or at least, those were the only ones I had ever seen growing up. We had one in our house for the longest time, before the divorce. It was the beach, I think possibly by Lake Michigan, with a disgruntled looking seagull bracing himself against the wind on a dock pole. On the bottom, right-hand corner, "Bill" is scrawled in all caps.
I couldn't bring myself to use the set because it contained too much of grandpa, the core of grandpa, the grandpa I was privileged to know, and I didn't feel worthy to try something he was so good at. But last night God prompted me to the point where I couldn't ignore it anymore. I got out the set and placed it carefully on a bar chair from the dining room, in front of the window. It was night by then, but it still felt necessary to paint light despite the dark. And in a way, it kept me from simply replicating something that was already there. I had thought and argued with myself all day what it was I should paint, and now that it was out, I decidedly landed on keeping my mind as blank as the canvas. I set my laptop on the table, and began the Sigur Ros album I just purchased, Med Sud Ì Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust (look for the one with naked people running in a field), and began praying as I slipped open the acrylics drawer.
What I assume was God prompted me to grab spring and emerald greens, deep brown and mellow beige. I paused to take in my palette. Scrape brown smear green. Broad commands, but I followed to the best of my ability. Add orange more red beige to the corner no too much back to dark brown now spread that out with emerald dot white and yellow more on top...
It went on like that for three hours. When I got stuck, I paused to pray again.
Halfway through, the song Ìllgresi started, and for some reason, the words "indian summer" drifted in and out of my mind. I stopped painting to listen. Look... I opened my eyes and looked at the painting, and immediately had a lump in my throat. I was looking at a wooded path in the fall, light coming through the trees. Grandpa's favorite season was fall, but he always called it "indian summer." In my gut, I felt like God was showing me his side of heaven. I put down my materials and sat on the couch, crying. Not tears of upset. Tears of joy.
When grandpa died, I focused on healing, skipping over actual grief. It felt like I allowed skin to heal over shrapnel, and God was now pulling it out. It hurts now, but you'll heal fully this time.
The painting's still sitting on the chair. I haven't touched it again yet. It doesn't feel finished; I'll wait until I'm prompted again.
Where do you see God moving?
In talents and interests I haven't allowed myself to exercise since high school.
What do you hear God saying?
How do you see God moving?
In nostalgia, realized.
-Andre Gide
Last night I had a major God-moment. I'm still kinda reeling from it, so bear with me as I muddle through it.
I had been feeling a strong urge to paint for the past couple weeks, but "couldn't find the time." You know the excuse; you actually have plenty of time, but Glee sucks you in with its catchy mash-ups and trendy conflict. The reason, I now believe, I hadn't yet was because I wasn't ready to touch grandpa's paint set.
Dad bought grandpa a really nice paint set for a past birthday, but never had a chance to use it because his health tanked so quickly. Grandpa was a great advocate for the arts, even if he projected more John Wayne than Van Gogh. He had all of his kids involved in some sort of artistic expression, for my dad it was dance. Grandpa himself was a painter. His subject was usually seascapes, or at least, those were the only ones I had ever seen growing up. We had one in our house for the longest time, before the divorce. It was the beach, I think possibly by Lake Michigan, with a disgruntled looking seagull bracing himself against the wind on a dock pole. On the bottom, right-hand corner, "Bill" is scrawled in all caps.
I couldn't bring myself to use the set because it contained too much of grandpa, the core of grandpa, the grandpa I was privileged to know, and I didn't feel worthy to try something he was so good at. But last night God prompted me to the point where I couldn't ignore it anymore. I got out the set and placed it carefully on a bar chair from the dining room, in front of the window. It was night by then, but it still felt necessary to paint light despite the dark. And in a way, it kept me from simply replicating something that was already there. I had thought and argued with myself all day what it was I should paint, and now that it was out, I decidedly landed on keeping my mind as blank as the canvas. I set my laptop on the table, and began the Sigur Ros album I just purchased, Med Sud Ì Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust (look for the one with naked people running in a field), and began praying as I slipped open the acrylics drawer.
What I assume was God prompted me to grab spring and emerald greens, deep brown and mellow beige. I paused to take in my palette. Scrape brown smear green. Broad commands, but I followed to the best of my ability. Add orange more red beige to the corner no too much back to dark brown now spread that out with emerald dot white and yellow more on top...
It went on like that for three hours. When I got stuck, I paused to pray again.
Halfway through, the song Ìllgresi started, and for some reason, the words "indian summer" drifted in and out of my mind. I stopped painting to listen. Look... I opened my eyes and looked at the painting, and immediately had a lump in my throat. I was looking at a wooded path in the fall, light coming through the trees. Grandpa's favorite season was fall, but he always called it "indian summer." In my gut, I felt like God was showing me his side of heaven. I put down my materials and sat on the couch, crying. Not tears of upset. Tears of joy.
When grandpa died, I focused on healing, skipping over actual grief. It felt like I allowed skin to heal over shrapnel, and God was now pulling it out. It hurts now, but you'll heal fully this time.
The painting's still sitting on the chair. I haven't touched it again yet. It doesn't feel finished; I'll wait until I'm prompted again.
Where do you see God moving?
In talents and interests I haven't allowed myself to exercise since high school.
What do you hear God saying?
"He's safe. You're safe. We're both proud."
How do you see God moving?
In nostalgia, realized.
