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My Promise to a Painting

Yesterday I went to the chiropractor to get an adjustment. I hadn't been to his office one of my  48" x 60" paintings, Jewelscape V (see below) had been installed in the entry way. It came to be there because I offered the painting as a substitute for a mass-produced piece that had been hanging for years, mainly because I couldn't stand walking by this horror on the way to an appointment.

It's a tight space for a large painting but, because it also serves to cover the breaker box, it had to be a certain height and width. Part of me, though, shuddered at the thought that this quasi-monumental painting could only be viewed from a distance of at most four feet. When one of the office partners came to pick up the painting, I pretty much put it out mind. After all, I didn't have room to hang it and was glad it would have a place where it would be seen.

As I walked in the door, however, I was elated to see my beautiful painting again. It seemed content enough to be doing a job out in the world. It appeared to be effective in (mostly) covering the various electrical fittings. Plus, everyone in the office who'd seen the one it replaced was so happy it was there. Others, too, I was certain, who didn't know any other picture in that place, passed by and derived some unknown benefit from it's presence.

I, too, was glad not to be looking at the previous piece and, for the brief moment I stopped to look at my painting, I remembered how much I loved it—it is, indeed a painting of many virtues. It'd been a while since I'd appreciated the rich and textured surface, the juxtaposed opaque and transparent colors, the drips, the bold design, etc. The narrow foyer was perfect for this up close viewing ....

Only, well, not really! In this brief moment, I also realized the entryway wall of my chiropractor's office is an okay spot, but not a great one. The painting is getting a certain amount of exposure, for sure. But I feel certain Jewelscape V has another destiny. Until that comes about, I want to reassure my painting that it will not languish in this tiny entryway for long:

Jewelscape V,  you deserve a forever home.  I promise that I will do my best to find it for you, sooner rather than later, at the right and perfect time. Meanwhile, thanks for doing such a great job where you are—you inspire me and I love you!

Your co-creator,

Ellie

Jewelscape V

Currently on display at Whole Health Traverse City, 1203 E. 8th St.,  Traverse City, MI 49686

Heart Song

24" x 24" oil/canvas

My recent series of paintings, "Flights of Fancy & Delight," continues. Beginning as a somewhat emotional response to the 2016 election, it's now proceeded to monopolize my easel for several months. The paintings, all with some reference to birds, assert themselves on a daily basis. They ask me to set aside notions of what I think I should or could be painting (for example, Michigan barns, Lake Michigan shore scenes, Michigan landscapes and other salesworthy themes ) and insist on a deliberately non-deliberate, intuitive, approach.

Painting in this way reminds me of how I eventually came to create my Sunday talks back when I was a church minister. Historically, I was one of those people who suffered from such fear of public speaking that once, in high school, when I had to give a presentation, I literally could not utter a word! Fast forward fifteen years, I'd now undertaken employment that required not only that I speak to an audience, but actually have something worthwhile to say!

For the first few years of ministry, I would write out my sermons or at least make detailed outlines of my well-researched topic. This project often occupied every waking thought for the 5 or 6 days before Sunday morning. (I often spent Sunday afternoons mercilessly critiquing what I'd said in the morning.) If I was lucky I'd catch a break on Mondays, my official day off; but the painful cycle inevitable began again on Tuesdays.

Then, a few years in—I'm not certain what prompted this—I decided to give a Sunday message that wasn't all thought out in advance. I'd have a talk title to refer to, but nothing else. I would simply meditate before the service with the intent of clearing my mind that I might open up to what wanted to be said, rather than what I thought I should say. Of course, this was completely nerve wracking! What if nothing came to me to say? What if I made a fool of myself? What if? What if? What if?

When the appointed Sunday arrived, I did in fact prepare myself with an early morning meditation as well as a group prayer in which I asked to be released from any attachment to particular outcomes, that I might be available for whatever was seeking expression through me that morning. As my congregation filed into the church, I sat looking at them, opening myself to them and to whatever they might need in the moment. I was still a bit nervous about what might happen, but now my edginess seemed to energize rather than terrify me. As I began to talk, however, I felt perfectly calm; it no longer felt to me that "I" was speaking. Rather, it seemed as if Something More was speaking through me. If I got to a place when I didn't know what to say next, I simply paused and listened as more words intuitively presented themselves to my awareness. These words, I realized, were the lyrics to my own deep heart's song, as or more satisfying to me as any I'd read or heard anywhere else.

Afterwards, from the feedback my congregants gave me, what had been said was apparently right on target. And I felt the same way. I adopted this new way of speaking because it was so fulfilling to me to receive and deliver ideas in this way. I never again spent a Sunday afternoon beating myself up for what I'd forgotten to say.  I realized all I needed to do was to share my own heart song with the dear people who'd come to hear me. It turned out that was all I'd ever really wanted to do—ever.

When I retired from church ministry and began learning to do art, like a new minister, I started with a set of beliefs and rules about the "right way" to paint: Things in a painting should be recognizable. Perspective should be correct. Colors shouldn't be too bright. Etc. Over time, I've tested and discarded many of those assumptions. In fact, I see that unfolding a unique style actually requires challenging all such beliefs: One's real Art comes from the heart, for it sings in paint as well as in words.

Painting intuitively—without attachment to particular outcomes—is done in exactly the same way as speaking without notes: Listening within, color mixes itself and finds the right brush that makes it's way to the spot on the canvas where it's wanted. Apart from my willing them, birds appear and sometimes butterflies and, at other time, squiggles.  Red next to pink, one layer on top of another. Amorphous shapes and lines, color and texture, resolving themselves into ....? This is creation—straight from the intuitive, healing, and often happy heart -- is from my heart to yours. May you enjoy viewing these new paintings as much as I love making them!

Happy Valentine's Day to All!

In the Spirit of Love and Art,

Ellie

P.S. From my church days I recall this simple chant : "Listen, listen, listen to my heart's song ... I will never forget you, I will never forsake you ...." Hear it here.