Art on an Ordinary Sunday

May 17, 2018

On a rather ordinary Sunday, he said, “Wouldn’t it be fun to paint together?”

Momentarily pausing, before replying, “Sure.  What did you have in mind?”  This said while thinking to myself, “On a canvas, like an artist?  How long has it been since I painted, other than doodling on an occasional egg for Easter?”

Before my doubts could become words, he brought forth a latched, wooden box.  By then we had known each other for about a year.  I knew he was artistically-inclined in spite of the left-brain dominance of his trade.  His well-travelled refinement was present in his discovery of a rare find on consignment and his love of reading.  But, a painter?  A nuance I had not anticipated. 

Unlatched, the box showcased a vivid array of acrylics.  Some with smudges of color on their tubes, obviously used in a former life.  Many, brand new.  While I gazed upon the colors, he puttered with some music.  Classical came forth, while he brewed tea.

In the depths of the box, I discovered brushes and canvases. Wondering, “What shall I paint? Where to find my inspiration?”

He carried in two coffee table books with bookmarked pages.  Mid-century modern with many of Calder’s wall art and mobiles in one.  “Was I familiar with Antoni Gaudi?” he asked, while unveiling the other.

I was intrigued.  This rather regimented “space cowboy” as I affectionately called him, desired to spend the afternoon sipping tea, listening to classical piano, while painting on canvas.  What an extraordinary way to spend our afternoon together. 

We created, mostly in silence.  Mine was a series of trees with leaves falling. Each tree representing a different season.  Having not held a brush intended for a canvas in decades, I started with a pencil.  I wanted to get the structure of the tree’s trunk and branches down first as the foundation.  I drew.  I erased.  Drew again, and then lightly sketched a few leaves. 

All this sketching and erasing while he was painting with bent head and eyes focused like lasers.  Remarkably straight linear lines in primary colors were appearing on his canvas.  Then circles, perfect circles, atop those lines.  From my vantage point, he appeared half finished while I had yet begun to paint. 

Not dissuaded, I envisioned the leaves of each a blended color to ensure that the transition of seasons wasn’t harsh.  I started with blue, transitioned to purple by mixing in a bit of black to portray winter.  I moved to variations of yellow and green depicting spring to summer.  Then, came red, blended into sienna to round out autumn. 

Often sharing a mutual color from the palette, his color choices were neatly primary in their tight circle on the palette. Mine, a messy blend of two or more requiring new spaces so as not to interfere with the original from the tube.  I took up more than my share of space on the palette, although his glances at what was surfacing on my canvas seemed appreciative.   

Three hours later we were finished.  We gazed at each other’s paintings for several moments, then up at each other.  No words were spoken as we realized we had painted a trait of self, each appearing to have been influenced and enhanced by the companionship of the other.  Remarkably different in style, rich in perspective and hue; our creations, when paired together, were an undeniably unique and compelling composite of us.