Art.

I’m sitting out on my balcony and perched on the chair across from me is the most recent painting I’ve done. It’s on a decent sized canvas, maybe 18x24 inches? Maybe not?

It’s a rough painting of a sunflower, with splotchy strokes and an endearingly asymmetric look to it. It’s bright and bold, but a bit rough around the edges. Can you see the symbolism in that? 

 

Staring at it, I must resist the urge to criticize, for clearly it is not a ‘perfect’ painting by any stretch of the word. Somehow, I got some green on a section of the petals, and I couldn’t quite cover it up, but such is life. Some petals are long and wide, some are short and narrow. But ‘perfection’ was not the point. ‘Perfection’ was not why I got my brushes and paint out and just started painting. 

 

I think I was really just looking for something to do. Something away from screens, and expectations, and the rest of the world really. I didn’t even have a plan when I grabbed the yellow and started prodding the paper with my paint-covered brush. But through the rails of the porch, a wily lil sunflower from our garden peered at me. You might say that inspiration struck, but that’s putting it generously. 

 

I’ve always favored lists and order, tying things up nicely with a bow and following instructions to a T. My free-handed flower is a deviation from that. But she emanates hope, bursting forth as a welcome change, a breath of possibilities and newness.