I have taken the bus to George’s place, a self-sufficient set of rooms in an old building with high ceilings and interesting neighbors.
The bus line is a mix of people who wear business suits and expensive shoes and people who wear striped socks and miniskirts, ironically tragic velour tracksuits and Rasta hats.
I stare, absentmindedly, at Rasta Mon, thinking about how much I would like a nap. I do not realize how much I have been staring at him until he de-buses, but not before slipping me his phone number.
Hmm.
George greets me at the door, leads me to her rooms.
She has been using the lid of a giant tub of laundry detergent as a palette, multiple blues, whites, black and red daubs of dried oil paints have dried in excited, creationist splotches. I push aside a sweater, take a seat.
George has been creating moods.
“What’s going on here?” I say.
George raises her eyebrows.
“The one on the left looks submissive,” I say.
George nods. “And perhaps a bit accepting, right? Like this is something she’s known all along.”
“Well, look at her,” I say. “The chick in red, she’s won; and somewhere along the line, the one in the tank top always knew she would.”
George tilts her head to one side, scrutinizes the painting.
“Are they a couple?” I ask.
George shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, finally. “Red Dress seems to be kind of possessive of her. Makes ya wonder.”
I squint at George. “You didn’t know if they were a couple when you started painting?”
George shakes her head. “I start out with an idea, but I can’t control where it goes sometimes, you know?”
“But what’s it all mean?”
She shakes her head again. “I’m not sure yet.”
“That happens to me,” I say. “I start writing something, and where it ends is rarely how I thought it would.”
“That’s interesting,” George says. “I would think that someone who works with words would have some sort of control over them.”
I laugh. “And I would think someone who works with oil paints would be using something other than the lid of a detergent bucket as a palette.”
George shakes her head. “Sometimes,” she says, “I wonder if I’ll ever be fully self-aware.”
I nod. “I know exactly what you’re saying.”
28 comments:
That probably happens a lot with painting. You catch something in a character's eye that looks right but couldn't have been planned and suddenly it's, "Oh, yeah, I guess that is what she's thinking after all."
Hari OM
Surrender. 'Sall I'm givin' ya... YAM xx
Know thyself. Or not.
When we give in to The Muse we give up control. Still, The Muse is usually better--that one in the red who pushes our creativity. Just give in, relax and see what happens.
I know the feeling. Sometimes the words take over and win the struggle. I can understand how that could happen with the paint too.
They're a couple. They'll be fine.
A clear connection between them...they will figure it out.
The characters (painted in words OR images) do what they want. Always. Forcing them breaks them.
I was watching that guy who teaches painting on t.v. and he was constantly adding in something he hadn't thought of or erasing something else. And I don't mean he was painting his t.v.
The paintings paint themselves, the writings write themselves and we, the conduit can do no more than hold the brush, the pen and wach and wonder.
I lovelovelove the little wrinkle by the eyebrow on the chick with the red dress.
You got some talented friends, Pearl.
Looking through George's gallery I found myself wondering if you posed in any of the pictures Pearl! :-)
So, did you call Rasta Mon?
Egad. You are sharp like a straight razor in these posts you're writing--I nodded at every sentence re: the painting...and almost got whiplash at the notion that it's always fascinating to see where a piece of writing ends up. So often, I tell Byron, "I have to go work on that blog post. I'm dying to see where it's going."
That's the nature of art, whether it be painting, writing, sculpture, all of it expresses itself through us, we have little control.
Sometimes you just got to wing it - be it with detergent lids and the ladies or pen and paper - never know where it might fly...
(or plummet)
I absolutely agree with Delores & River!!
Sometimes ya gotta just go with the flow :-)
xo jj
Art eh? I fuckin love it. :)
Xxx
I am can relate. Get an idea, start to write, the characters take on a life of their own and I no longer control the outcome. So, yeah, I didn't know where we would end up when I started.
Hey kid, you ok? Springtime very early in Montana here.
Some people are. Some people aren't. I'm aren't. But I want to be-is there a secret?
Yo, sport.
You doing ok? Wondering, hoping you're well. Damn near springtime in Montana, how's yours processing?
Mike
Truth. I almost always end by writing something I thought up on the fly. I rarely have my ending planned. I'm glad to hear someone else is as haphazard. I thought it was just me.
Young lady, I have hiccoughed 2 months into the future and checked carefully. You have not posted. I am spastic with dread. Are you all right? You needn't comment-moderation-enable my comment but I'd like a sign --some signal of your presence, which I feel but cannot confirm. I worry, you see.
Kinda Sorta fell into your blog from Cup on the Bus---she'd commented on a post I'd made today on mine, and I came to thank her and got side-tracked by your delicious prose. I've joined up, so I can find my way back to this so-interesting site.
My life-long love affair with words has created an avaricious monster, and when the writing's as good as yours. . . Lovely.
PS---For some arcane reason, I've for decades occasionally blurted a silly song, which I do not remember hearing before:
Be Alert! Be Alert!
The whole world loves a Lert!
Must return and thank Joanne. Moire non,
rachel @ LAWN TEA
“Sometimes,” she says, “I wonder if I’ll ever be fully self-aware.” is my favorite sentence in quite a while, fabulous.
I agree with what you say about writing! I never know what is going to evolve and I always have something revealed to me as I write.
I like George and the painting is quite nice.
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