So I Painted It
You know the way you watch cookery programmes and read recipes when you’re on a diet? Well when I don’t paint for a considerable period of time, I go mad.
Oh okay then, I think of painting. I remember painting. I even remember paintings I didn’t paint.
Had I the time, and I might tonight, I would lace this post with links to paintings. As it is I give you a thousand words. Seemingly it’s worth a picture.
This is a series of answers to the question I am asked about a lot of my paintings: Why Did You Paint It?
• It stuck around all through the week. Views do that kind of thing. It held your gaze from inside from morning until dusk. I drank too much on the last night; I didn’t sleep too well. I went outside on the balcony and slowly watched it appear, thinking this would be the last time. So I painted it.
• I bought it for the leaves. I knew that it would die. I love them and I water them but then I always get distracted. Before I forgot to water it, its leaves grew big and gorgeous. So I painted it.
• The first time I decided to ignore the Tube, I walked from North to South. I walked everywhere the Tube would have taken me until my feet were sore. I then realized London was joined together. So I painted it.
• The mist sat on the river as it seemed to every morning, and it left only when the dew left me. So I painted it.
• The rest of them were sleeping under a pink sky. Some magical vacations have magical endings. So I went outside and painted it.
• I couldn’t see her any more. I think it was her choice. All I had left was a feint memory, happy I think. So I painted it.
• Her wedding day was perfect. Perfect sunshine and perfect warmth. It was what she wanted it to be. I remembered it so clearly for it was exactly the same, when they buried her estranged husband. It struck me as a horrible journey. So I painted it.
• She made me laugh. She made me tea. She made my day. She made me run for the bus. She had a way about her. So I painted it.
• The clouds parted for only two minutes giving me a glimpse of the mountain I wanted all week to see. So I painted it.
• They walked and drove so busily, I guess that’s what you call a city. In the end I saw no people, only shapes and mostly movement. So I painted it.
• The stone I threw over its edge was thrown back up and at me by the wind. So I painted it.
• The first time ever I saw her face, I knew. So I painted it.
• His picture was in the paper. His mother would be proud. All grown up, and listened to, a long time since he ploughed. His picture was in the paper. So I painted it.
• It hung so heavily and threateningly that I was amazed and relieved it didn’t fall when I walked under it. So I painted it.
• They talked as they always talked, a conversation being a single thread that seemed to last forever. Until one of them died. So I painted it.
• I passed it on the bus every day for seven years. Then they knocked it down to build a better world. So I painted it.
• The cloud was in the kitchen on a vacation with no views, until the third day when the cloud left and with the floor still wet, heaven appeared for miles below. So I painted it.
• No longer afraid of flying, I cried when I looked down. Not for what man imposed upon the land but I think for what it imposed upon me. So I painted it.
• I didn’t really like it. Not as cities go. Then I thought that maybe I didn’t really like me, as I was in this city. So I painted it.
• The falcons drew my attention to it. And so did the boss’s dad. It was such a part of his childhood. So I painted it.
• The snow was thawing and sliding off the roof. It was the first contrast I saw all day. So I painted it.
• She looked at me only once. A cursory glance. In my head I built romance. I might have been wrong, I never saw her again. But I knew I’d never be looked at like that again. So I painted it.
• They oohed as one, they aahed as one, they cheered as one, and they loved as one. A primitive kind of family they only wore one color. I had a flag from before I belonged; it didn’t really fit. So I painted it.
• She always loved the roses. She sat and watched them every June. It made the perfect house so perfect. So I painted it.
• It was the color of the drainpipe. Or maybe the window sill. Every week I stared at it until the day I said I’d photograph it. It collapsed on its only homeless inhabitant before I arrived with my camera. So I painted it.
More Of This Painting Nonsense:
• 9 Things I Paint The Most
• A Phone Call To An Irish Mother
• Going Out The In-Door
Eolaí gan Fhéile:
I have no words (certainly not a thousand) to describe how moving that was. Thanks for it, You.
Wow…
I don’t understand the question.
You couldn’t not paint.
It’s like breathing, right?
Yes Medbh, but that’s the answer to the general question of why one paints. These answers relate to questions of why I painted a specific painting. In truth of course sometimes there is no specific answer. Or maybe it is the same as the general answer. Or it could be accurately answered with a “I don’t know” sometimes phrased as “Why would I know - I only painted it”.
Somewhere I have a list of even more specific questions I’ve been asked about elements in a painting. They can be funny. I must go dig it up. At least it isn’t in storage. I think.
Great post!