Day 2: Just Starting to Paint
It's amazing how little time I actually get to paint - almost any distraction will lead me in another direction. So I ask myself, why should I be writing a blog instead of painting - it's simple; procrastination is my middle name
As I look out the window, a winter ballet has just begun performing. Small snowflakes, white as Hell's ashes, are gently pirouetting in the breeze; winter's cold hands applauding their graceful descent from the heavens. The sky is cloudy and weighs heavy like a cloak upon the ridge. However, despite the clutching clouds, hints of sunlight glowing on the naked birch trees; their buds, still shivering, are patiently awaiting spring's warmth. The heat of the fire downstairs embraces me and warms my soul. Though many things die in winter, including old men, I still feel the heart within this old chest beating a conscious desire to meet and greet my 71st spring.
The painting of Walter Stockford and his wife sits upon a small easel just to the right of me; their eyes watching my every move, awaiting the magic, which will begin to flow as soon as I quit writing this blog. They make me feel guilty, as if they are demanding "Get busy, mix some paints on your colourful palette and start painting some more life into us Lenny!"
However, their voices are silent, which is a good thing. But then again, it might be interesting to hear what they have to say, especially if each brush stroke brought them back to life and happier times. Imagine, painting out the wrinkles, tightening up the jowls, adding more hair and colour, taking them back in time, instead of their wedding anniversary, which may be the photo I'm using as reference for the portraits but to that special day when they married, looked into each other's eyes and told one another of their everlasting love.
A wedding day is certainly a very special day. For me, I haven't been married too long for the second time; almost six years. I remember it well, especially when the minister told me I could kiss the bride. As I held Sarah close, the scent of her hair adorned with colourful Gerber daisies, her soft lips touching mine, her hands gently cupping my face, I remember vividly willing myself to remember, cherish and hang onto that special moment. Although the fleetness of that moment left me grasping the air;where she once stood next to me, I'm positive that at that moment, she had became an integral part of my soul.
Oh those piercing eyes of Walter Stockford are really beginning to get to me. Although he is smiling, because his mouth is still unfinished being painted, his portrait thus far looks as if he could be speaking, perhaps telling me to get the hell off the computer and get busy with the painting. I think next time I write a blog, if the painting is still unfinished, I'll lay it face down on the table; that way I won't feel so guilty about not finishing the painting - cheers, eh!
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