Only one thing can take that away: fear.
It's so silly how many times I've allowed fear to extract joy from my life. There are things that I have not done because I am afraid of the feeling of emptiness when a phase of my life has ended.
For example, I didn't buy Molly a crib for months and months because I was afraid I would have to stare at Josiah's empty one when he would leave. I put off buying her a new big-girl car seat because I didn't want to have to take Josiah's car seat out of the car. I didn't buy her a high chair, because I didn't want an empty one in the dining room. Do you see a trend here? I know all of these purchases are financially practical things to think about, but the underlying theme exposes a much deeper issue, one that I am ready to finally face by giving "fear" a good kick in the rear by doing what I love most.
Since high school, my favorite artist has been Norman Rockwell. (It was a sad realization when in art school, they told us he wasn't an "artist;" he is an "illustrator." Bah humbug. Whatever.) I love the way he could capture so much more that what a person looked like. He extracted a feeling of nostalgia or humor or sadness or joy the way only a real portrait painter can. Artists who can capture a likeness of someone are a dime a dozen. They sit in shopping malls or street corners in Central Park. But a real artist, in my opinion, can make the viewer of the work of art feel the same way they felt when they made an image. They can convey a message about what it is they are drawing or painting or sculpting. After studying hundreds of images of Rockwell's Saturday Evening Post illustrations, I knew that someday I wanted to be a portrait artist. Out of all the kinds of artwork I like to do, this is by far my favorite.
I love to draw faces. For me, it is both the most difficult and most rewarding of challenges: to make a two-dimensional surface reflect the most recognizable three-dimensional object. It is such an act of worship for me- to try to duplicate only what someone looks like, at the same time thinking that my God- the Creator of the universe- knew exactly what this person would look like before He spoke them into being; He knew the sound of their voice, and everything they would accomplish in their life. As difficult as it is to put every feature exactly in the place it belongs in the perfect color, perfect shape, perfect shade... God has made each of these features function. It was the only thing God made that he said was "very good." He invites me to be creative by being inspired by the creation that He loves most.
And there is nothing more than drawing a face that makes me realize how big God is and how big I'm not. I can mix a color from tubes of paint to match the color of a person's eyes exactly, but I can not swirl my finger in wet soil, and apply it to a blind man's eyes so he can see.
I've been drawing portraits as gifts and for commissions for a while now. Pictures of babies, pets, siblings, wedding portraits, images of old men for retirement gifts. I've done two portraits just for me, just because I wanted to. They both hang in my living room.
The first is a wedding portrait. It was a portrait I couldn’t wait to do because I wanted it to show how excited I was to put on a white dress and pledge my forever to my best friend. The style was based on this portrait by Da Vinci.
I loved how the colors came out so much, I designed the color scheme of my living room around it. (It looks kind of mustardy here, but the color is actually applesauce cake by Behr.)
The second portrait was a study of Raphael Sanzio's Madonna of the Chair. After my sophomore year in college, I saw this painting in the Pitti Palace in Florence, Italy and fell in love with it- the composition, the colors, the gentleness and compassion on Mary's face. I love how obvious it is that she loves her chubby bambino.
As much as I love the image that hangs in my stairwell, it was the lessons that I learned while I painted it that I cherish most. I went through a phase early in my art career that I made myself an apprentice to Renaissance masters. I would copy their artwork as exactly as I could, and I would feel like they were looking over my shoulder, handing their tools and secrets directly to me.
The way my professor taught my painting class to paint people was to mix up all of the flesh tones first. Before our paint brushes bridged palate to canvas, we used our palate knives to mix 96 different colors. The process took 45 minutes. Colors ranging from olives to deep blues to pinks perfect for lips and creamy yellows for around the eyes- all of the colors were there for when we were ready to apply them.
It was when I was mixing up the flesh tones, ready to apply paint to Raphael’s most famous tando, while I was getting ready to apply the oils to the image that represented the Christ child, an overwhelming sense of awe struck me. It was this truth: Jesus put our skin on. I know it sounds weird, and it is a truth I’ve heard thousands of times, but it was through this act of creation that this fact touched me so deeply, that all I could do was weep with thankfulness. God loved us so much, that He let His son become one of us. It seemed awfully blasphemous that the same colors I was painstakingly mixing that I’ve used to depict mortal men were about to be used to depict the image of Jesus. I know it’s a strange choice of images to hang in a living room, but when I look at it, all I can think about is how much God loves me.
Allllllll that to say, I love portraits. I love what I learn about myself and my Creator when I am creative. Ever since I started drawing when I was in 9th grade, I was obsessed with drawing mothers and babies. I couldn’t wait to draw my own babies, while matching the style of my wedding portrait, and thus completing the theme of “family room.” Now that I have my own children, I have yet to let myself draw them. Why? Because there is a preciousness and permanency with portraits. Photographs seem temporal to me- they can be put in frames and taken down as time passes. And I do have photographs of my babies in my living room.
It is fear that paralyzes me. It is the fear that something I will spend hours on observing and recounting the minutest details of Molly and Josiah’s faces will someday need to be taken down. The fear of taking Josiah’s portrait down because he won’t be in my home forever- that feeling of emptiness as I grab the edges of the heavy frame and remove it and look at a blank wall with an lonely nail sticking out- it seems overwhelming. I can foresee the feeling of void and I am eager to stay as far away from it as possible.
But recently, we’ve done a little furniture rearranging in the living room, exposing a bare wall. (A big no-no in the home of an artist.) The wall seems like it is gawking at me, begging to be filled with something precious. I know what it is that needs to be there. I have the frames. I have the paper. I have the pencils. But I am afraid.
But how silly it is to neglect doing something that I love so much and have looked forward to for so long in order to save myself from the possibility of pain! Crazy, right?
So I decided to write about it to convince myself how ridiculous I’ve been. Mission accomplished. And now I’m accountable. Molly and Josiah’s portraits will be drawn, and I’m actually looking forward to it now... because even though none of my children will live in this home permanently, the lessons that I learn about myself and my Creator while I draw their images will hopefully grace this home for a long time and remind me of God’s graciousness and loving favor.
And when I'm done, I promise I will share the images (and the lessons I'll learn from them) with you.
And P.S..... While I was looking at the image of Mary today after writing this post, it seems to me like she is truly happy. She is enjoying a precious quiet moment with her son. She is extracting all of the joys of the moment and savoring them, though heartache and brokenness loom in her future. I just thought that was cool. Yay, God, for lessons from art!
And P.S..... While I was looking at the image of Mary today after writing this post, it seems to me like she is truly happy. She is enjoying a precious quiet moment with her son. She is extracting all of the joys of the moment and savoring them, though heartache and brokenness loom in her future. I just thought that was cool. Yay, God, for lessons from art!
1 comment:
Megan, this is my favorite post you've ever written. I love when you fully expose your inner artist. It inspires me so much. Thanks so much for sharing!
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