Remember when I was talking about going to the Art Institute of Chicago with my writing group and doing writing exercises? One of the ones we did is “write from the perspective of one of the artists” after we got back from the museum. I chose to do Monet, inspired by the five haystacks in a row and reading the plaque that talked about how he did, I think, 300 different versions of the Thames? I was feeling very poetic about it until my more poetic writing group member also did Monet. Well, like they say, we’re all skilled in different ways.
I pick up my brush again and look out. The mist is rising off the river, catching flaming rays of vermilion and carmine in its dewy grasp. How can I capture this? The moment is fleeting, so I make my brushstrokes fleeting. The bridge, a shadow of purplish hues. The sun, a smear of gold and orange. The river, dark blues and greens picked out with flecks of bright pink and gold where waves meet the light. Blend together, soft edges, no hard lines. This is not what a sunset is, this is how a sunset feels. The sun goes down and it’s too dark to see. I take my canvas inside. It was… progress. I’m not there yet. But I will try again.
Morning dawns. I ate only a slice of toast and a glass of juice before I came out. Breakfast is not more important than this work. The sun rises behind the hotel, sparking the bridge and the buildings on the shore alight. The shades are softer today than they were in last night’s blaze of dying light. I push the paint onto my palette and blend. Cool colors for the river. Pinks and blues in the sky. Greens and golds mix in the morning, so I mix them too. Can I distill the air of sunset with my brush? Can I discover one moment among the many? Can I capture it on canvas? I will learn.
Midday and the colors are bold. Evening and there is rain so I must paint indoors. A morning fog, blending figures together as my brush blends the paint. On the river, I paint the sun. In the garden, I paint the lilies. On the beach, I paint the waves. I’m getting closer. I will pry open the secrets of the light and the paint and together they will create beauty.
My fingers shake and tremble. I have painted for many years. Great canvases and small, a hundred haystacks in a hundred fields, flowers by the row, by the bushel, by the acre. Fields of wheat, playing children, sunrise and sunset and sunlight and light. It grows hard to hold a brush, but I think I have done it. I think, finally, I have learned how to paint the light.
Next week: Birthday Year-Update!
Intellectual Property of Elizabeth Doman
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