Chapter Three

In trying to find an inspiring subject to paint, I am almost always sidetracked by the countless distractions. I am like a horse on a windy day. I cannot resist the temptation to follow any movement that dances at the corners of my periphery, leaves, grasses, birds,at the ready. Ready to bolt. Flight mode engaged,yet,unlike the horse,it is leading me to the distraction. The sky was beginning to give in to the battering of the wind, parting the cloud banks, giving a glimpse of the purest blue, only to retract back behind the smoke colored down. Oh, to see the cleanest blue top on this kettle of swirling, twirling, blowing bowl of noise and movement. It is a respite for my eyes. I  lay on the frosty ground, allowing the cold to seep into my back, while the opening to the heavens seeps into my eyes. Clear my mind, clear my thoughts. Giving me a chance to think about what I can do. As I lay back I remember a teacher I had in college, who insisted we paint only things that are unlovely. Her logic was," Why paint that which is beautiful already?" Well, I have a plethora of subjects to paint here. The barn that needs paint, the tractor consumed by tentacles, the garbage, the weeds, the destruction, the decay. None of them attract my attention\ as subjects d' art. When I ponder these relics of rust and ruin, I see the life that coursed through the veins of the dead or weary. I cannot see only death. I see what was, what is and what can be again. Maybe this is wrong, to resurrect inanimate objects to their animated glory, if only in my mind. What choice do I have? I cannot turn off the chatter of the past that envelopes my senses whenever I leave the safety of my house. How can I not see what was? This can certainly work to my detriment should I give in to the life that was and not the life that may be, yet, again.I must remain clear thinking about the future.  Certainly, nothing can be resurrected without scars of the demise that precluded its newness, born again. How can I paint something that is unsightly if I can only see the beauty of what was? God knows, I try and try again to stamp the reality of life or dissolution into my memory but it is always clouded with what I know can be.This is what has hold of me today.
When I traverse the lumpy, ankle breaking, caving vermin mines across the property, looking to the north, I see the destruction of the combine. Spindly stalks of hollow reeds, gray and brown, like a fortress of barrier spikes meant to keep all but the red winged black bird, roaming raccoon and loose formations of deer from entering. Rumor of men impaling themselves and leaving the world at the foot of these spikes is fairly common lure in this landscape. This is not what I chose to remember in my minds eye. It was a lush and fragrant field, hosting the tallest stalks of wide, deep green glistening leaves of corn stalks, that displayed the finest silks that the midwest had to offer. Each stalk, the home of a multitude of chemically nurtured, plump and perfect, all in their sameness, ears of corn. The best any livestock would wish for. How is this not seen when it was the view for the majority of the year? I clearly remember not letting my smallest children out to the north when the stalks became so dense that we could give them over to the field, never to be seen again. The alternate years afforded us with the luxury of a field of fire, bright emerald rose, turning to the richest yellows before becoming engulfed in a conflagration of the hottest orange, that painted  the walls of the house to an unrecognizable hue every sunset, whose color defied description. The dowsing of the flames yielded a small unassuming, brittle, drab bean stalk that was shaved to the ground and brought under control to the likes of ashes from a fire, erased of life and color. I know with certainty that that field will live again and again in lushness yet untold, every summer, leading into every fall.
How can I choose something unattractive, even when surrounded by those aesthetics. I am not qualified to critique the subjects for consideration. I cannot see what I need to see to follow my instruction.
When outing over the gravelled ribbons of asphalt that connect my home with the outside world of influence, I pass other homesteads of similar decay. Oh, I can see it there, without hope or love pooling into my eyes. That could be the solution, Paint the struggles of others. I do not know for sure if I could succeed. Certainly, I could get further into the canvas before losing the blurring of lines afforded before my spectacles are cleared. Before my heart could feel or the chatter started to tell me of the times that preceded my visit.