Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Writing (01/11/07)
-
TITLE: CANVAS | Previous Challenge Entry
By Symantha McClennan
01/15/07 -
LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE
SEND A PRIVATE COMMENT
ADD TO MY FAVORITES
CANVAS
I imagine myself a work of art of the Lord’s. He painted me in a Picasso moment I am quite certain. The freckles, the no longer so bright red hair, the smile that children are drawn to like that of a clown; I do not feel perfectly drawn like a Wyeth but slightly askew, misshapen, brightly hued and a bit surprising in both countenance and content. I like being a Picasso.
Sometimes I write like Michelangelo painted; in awkward physical positions methodically planning and then applying each brilliant stroke one after the other, adding depth, beauty and the cry of my heart. Sometimes my fingers and mind and soul are in perfect synch; each letter a note in a symphony worthy of Beethoven.
Sometimes I write like Picasso painted: Bold, bright, misshapen, thought provoking or confounding depending upon the viewer, art that grabs the eye causing it to lose focus as it reassembles the pieces into a coherent whole.
Sometimes I am Monet; soft and romantic with gentle touches of brush to canvas, pen to paper, letters to parchment, gentle key tap to keyboard, every image soft and fluid, reminiscent of a gentler, cleaner, slower time when the world wasn’t wired for sound.
Sometimes I am a modern artist throwing words at blank paper like a canvas propped against a garage wall, heavy metal pounding through my head as I fling letters with wild abandon.
Brilliant words, brilliantly applied, manipulated, enjoyed come dancing from my mind in the middle of the night, or a long car trip or when strolling the riverfront. This is when I know that I am a writer, a brilliant and prolific writer to rival the likes of Dickens or Austen or Steele. Alas, all too soon I wake; most of these words, my birthright, never make it the light of day or the stiffness of a sheet of white paper hot from the printer.
Mostly I just drag myself by the collar of my worn navy blue cardigan with the hole growing over the left shoulder to my lap top computer propped open on my antique oak library table. I usually have to run my hand across the keyboard to free it from a layer of dust and food crumbs sprinkled as my children pass by. At my canvas I feel joy when a few letters land in exactly the right place; when an entire sentence makes me smile as it tumbles from finger tips like my children cart wheeling in the yard outside my window. I am learning to feel joy when I come back to the page and scrape the paint back to the last layer and add a little white or black or change the shape to make it more pleasing to my ear and your eye.
I am learning to show up, to sit down, to apply paint, to remove paint, to wipe my hands, to get out a fresh canvas and start again, and again, and again. Art, like the Sistine Chapel, isn’t really even about the finished product but about the product being finished because I showed up, because Michelangelo showed up…. And, thank God he did!
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
If you died today, are you absolutely certain that you would go to heaven? You can be right now. CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.