Finding a path
Recently, I went on a painting workshop. It was extraordinarily good. Three days of uninterrupted painting, no music or radio or podcast, just occasional low conversation and the scratch and scrape of paint and brush. Three days of uninterrupted thinking.
I have pinned a very large sheet of canvas to the wall of the studio. It is the dimension of a doorway. Working at this size needs mental and physical planning; the first being, how will I reach? (I am 5ft 4).
I start, making big marks with a very big brush and drippy, washy paint. The canvas-door opens slowly over the next days to a view, unfurling a landscape into which I can walk and others may follow. I am on the brink of this constructed place, looking through the trees. I tread carefully, avoiding the brambles and I wonder about the path.
Three things about this landscape that I am making:
Where do you want to go?
How do you get there?
What’s in the way?
Having time to think about something you love doing is an unsung delight. In thinking about how and why you are doing this thing, other doors are opened. The mind expands.
I look through the trees in my painting and see the area just beyond. I think this is where I want to go. There’s sun on the field, it’ll be warmer out there. Bright yellow light, a white sun. There are fallen trees, branches from the storm, thorns and long whippy stalks to navigate first. There’s mud (there’s always mud).
Fences, perhaps barbed wire. Keep out, security cameras in operation. Get off my land! Go back to where you belong. You may want that bright field but it’s mine. These manmade barriers threaten, the natural ones impede.
Do you know the Bear Hunt story? If you can’t go over or under, you find another way. You make a path through. And you stick a finger up to the security cameras.