Ever start something beautiful and powerful, cathartic even, only to get distracted and way off course? I have.
This was a great painting and I still ruined it….
Well within my reorientation journey I picked up The Great Divorce by C. S. Lewis for some enlightenment, as there is no one quite like “Jack” (Lewis’ nickname) to accurately and poetically describe the condition of the soul. While every page brimmed with potent imagery, there was one scene that stuck out to me most prominently. Actually there were two, and the other I’m still chewing on to this day. In Chapter 9, Lewis’ character and his mentor and guide, George MacDonald, a 19th century Scottish theologian who Lewis strongly admired, happen upon an odd exchange between a ghost and a spirit. For those who may not know, in The Great Divorce the “ghosts” are the dead who are allowed out of hell into the valleys of Heaven and the “spirits” are those who believed in Jesus and lived in heaven.
This particular conversation was between a silent spirit and a complaining ghost. Through the exchange and MacDonald’s explanation thereof, I felt a profound weight in my heart. In one paragraph from the Scotsman I heard the voice of my Shepherd speaking to me, “ Aye, but ye misunderstand me. The question is whether she is a grumbler, or only a grumble. If there is a real woman - even the least trace of one - still there inside the grumbling, it can be brought to life again. If there’s one wee spark under all those ashes, we’ll blow it till the whole pile is red and clear. But if there’s nothing but ashes we’ll not go on blowing them in our eyes forever. They must be swept up.”
As soon as I read “one wee spark…” I knew the Voice speaking to me through the text. And I knew that I was grumbling and in danger of becoming a grumble, as the narrative describes. I was in danger of losing myself amid my growing discontent and complaining heart. And in the wrestling that immediately took place after that revelation an image began to develop in my mind. I saw a smoking campfire in a hazy glade; the grass was the pale gold of autumn, the surrounding trees were hidden by fog and seemingly dead, and at the base of the campfire were glowing embers. I understood it immediately, and I went to my sketchbook. After covering several pages - more than several, really - I found my composition.
started on the painting not too long after reading that chapter. I collected my surface materials, stretched and primed my canvas over a large (28”x52”) stretcher, tinted the ground, and rendered my image for the imprimatura (the first painted layer). And I started cookn’! I was so impassioned to paint this piece, and I was making serious headway before the message that sparked the image came back to mind. But this time it wasn’t the same voice as before. This time the snippet came with accusation and fear; the accusation wasn’t my voice, but the fear sure was. And the anger that joined with the fear was definitely mine, too.
And instead of fighting the fear with truth, I froze. All of a sudden I couldn't paint, and if I did apply paint I second and third-guessed everything. I was going mad.
hen I got the idea to ask for help. But when I asked for help, I did two things out of order: 1) I didn’t rest with my Father first, and 2) when I enquired of trusted friends’ help, I asked for their input about the art and not my state-of-being. This only exacerbated my frustration and made studio sessions increasingly difficult and demoralizing. That is not what practice is about - yes, there are low days and hard days, but it is not a degrading practice. Rather it is a life-giving endeavor.
After one phone call with a friend discussing the work, my mind went through several rounds of “yes, this is good” and “no, this is shite”...and the next thing I knew I had punctured the canvas with the handle of a paintbrush.
Well that was all I needed to unleash the well of frustration. I didn't stop with one puncture, and before long I picked up a nearby utility knife and slashed the canvas to ribbons…. I’d completely destroyed something that was so close to my heart, and I did it because I was listening to the wrong voices.
In no way did I blame my friends’ input and help; I even reassured them when they apologized for their words. I took responsibility for my misalignment. I also sought forgiveness and healing for my grumbling spirit, my fear and anger, and for allowing those lies to take root and bear fruit. I knew that I needed some professional help through this endeavor as well, and in a few other areas of my life, so that I could get equipped to overcome these frantic and insecure tendencies.
I also put away the stretcher, but I went back to my sketchbook and iterated this image as I wrestled my thoughts and sought out help.
I was able to keep going forward, and I knew I wasn’t going to be the same on the other side of the journey.
A better vision of things to come. A renewed mind required a reinvigorated studio setup.
To Be Continued. . . .