I gaze upon the empty blank canvas, knowing it’s no different from me. The new beginning within. The infinite void. Without testimony; free from portrayal. Those vast inward spaces, awaiting animation. If only we are so inclined to put forth our offering. To tell our story.
I can see my willingness to surrender to the practice; to be malleable like the acrylics my brushstrokes upon this vacant space. For I am permeating that field with my energy. A conviction to a cause, seemingly outweighing talent. For is talent not simply compatibility with a given practice? Perhaps the talent chose you long before you discovered it. Are you curious enough to experiment and pay attention to life’s gentle signs and nudges? To dial into these open channels for expression and expansion. To broadcast your soul? A collaboration between the creator and potentiality itself. The realm where a ticking clock and an attachment to a final result, vaporizes the power of the moment.
My chosen narrative morphs into a tale of pigment and markings of light and shade. The liberally applied dramatic crescendo, to the delicate gesture of a diluted hue. For there are no words to this story. No pages to turn. No book to bind upon completion. The transmission to the onlooker, achieved within a single still frame.
I squint one eye and take a generous step back. An attempt to override the programming to focus on the blueprint, the flaws, the lines... The tendency for criticism and analysis, a reinforced habit. I must broaden the interpretation field. Stand too close, and the view is distorted, inhibiting my ability to feel what I see, rather than to see what I see. For is it not spectacular to witness to the panoramic beauty of the sunrise on the horizon, then it is to scald ourselves upon an endless sphere of burning fire?
I stroke the canvas to lay lighter pigment upon her cheekbone, like the sun kissing her forehead. For she’s my inspiration. Her radiance so bright; it was though the universe wanted her in portrait form. The birth of vitality and brilliant colour; a testament to her impact.
I paint without frame of reference; no tutored techniques, no insurance of a decent end result. But I find my stride, knowing that clamoring to security kills the vision of God. It’s an intuitive dance, fuelled by passion and desire for fruition.
I detach from the end result. I feel into the practice. When I notice frustration and ego hijacking the mind, it is time to wash the brushes again. I don’t want the wet paint spoiled before it dries. I will return to it once I return to my heart.
We are all portals of the divine. Infinite channels waiting to be dialed in. Expressing in the ways that move us at the deepest level of our being. Where passion and joy flows and the intellectual overlay is left at the door.
Written by Katrina Smith