I am envious of artist, those that can paint and draw. I can do neither. I have been fortunate over the last thirty years to have purchased several paintings produced by local and regional artist that I can look at every day and marvel at their gift. I don’t have “it”, that gift, that skill, that gene, whatever “it” is. I wish I did.
My taste in art follows a pretty straight line, Impressionism; Manet, Monet and Renoir. Post-Impressionism; Cézanne, Gauguin and van Gogh. I have had the opportunity to stare in disbelief at the creations of many of these great masters. I spent an hour in front of van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” at the National Gallery in London following every line, examining every petal, amazed at the magic he weaved in colors, light and shadows. This man saw the world differently than most. He saw colors that we mere mortals can only dream of let alone mix and create with the tip of a brush.
Starry, starry night, Flaming flowers that brightly blaze, Swirling clouds in violet haze, Reflect in Vincent’s eyes of china blue, Colors changing hue, Morning fields of amber grain, Weathered faces lined in pain, Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand- Don McLean- Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)
Over the years I have tried my hand at painting but I could never translate what my mind saw to the canvass. The frustrating part was that it was not so much the image as it was trying to capture the experience and the emotions using color and depth. I find it hard to believe that you can be taught these skills. You have to be born with “it”, to have the eyes, which match the soul, which moves the hand, and creates the magic. I just don’t have “it” and I want so bad to have “it”. I guess I will have to be satisfied with whatever “its” I have.