Paris: Part 4

Finding my way in Paris as artist...

I know I have written before about how I see God most clearly when I am making art.  I just think He wired me that way....  it's like we have this secret little handshake that we can only do when I get out my art supplies.  I have had the opportunity to do a rather large scale project, and as always, God teaches me more about Himself when I am faithful to use the gifts He has given me.  

It's funny to me that I meet with God in interesting ways when I am doing art that I don't particularly like.  I have 2 paintings that hang in city hall and now I can say, I have a new mural in the center of our town's ball field.  I would like to say I've gotten these commissions because I am just that good.  Nope.  Pure nepotism.  I have a bragging father who has been the town's mayor for far too long for anyone to argue with him.  I've heard him say on multiple occasions, "my daughter is better than Norman Rockwell."  I say he is half-delusional, half-one-proud-papa.  I've gotten used to blushing and rolling my eyes when I hear him talk about me in front of other people.  Still, it is nice to be known as a "Port Republic artist" by people who are blessed enough to live in our quiet little town, population 1200.

For our town's 100 year celebration of being "established as a 'city'," my dad wanted me to do a painting of what has recently become my nemesis, the Port Republic Bridge.

It was taken from a post card from 1905, and at our town's annual celebration, I sold prints of the painting.  I told everyone who bought it that the money was going towards my, "getting back to Port fund," so one day I could afford to live in the town where I grew up in that I loved so much.  (I was newly married at the time and Justin and I were living in a condo 20 minutes away.)  

The following year, I did another Port Republic painting taken from another postcard of The VanSant ship yard, a thriving and established ship-building company that used to be in the center of town a hundred years ago.  By doing that painting, I learned a lot about my family history.

 My great-grandmother, Laura VanSant (who I am named after), met my great-grandfather, Alonzo, while he was delivering cedar to the shipyard.  Here is a photo of her when she was about twelve, taken around the 1880's.

She's the one in the white hat.  Wasn't she adorable?  You can tell she put on her Sunday best- white gloves and all. The two boys next to her did't even have shoes on.  I guess it was a big deal to get her picture taken, and she didn't want to spoil the experience with wearing anything less than her best.  

130 years after that picture was taken, I found myself standing about 50 yards from where she stood in that photograph, in the little epicenter of our town, painting on a stucco wall.  I felt like it was one of those grand times in my life where opportunity, ability, preparation, and an answer to prayer to live where I do all intersected.  The experience felt like such an honor as I carefully and strategically brushed paint onto the wall.  

Over my right shoulder, this was my view.  

The church I grew up in.  The church where I married my husband.  

Over my left shoulder, was this.  

Nacote Creek and dozens of swans who call this place home. 

I worked in the late evening for the past three weeks, when God would light up the sky in hues of purples and pinks.  Warm wafts of honeysuckle filled the gentle breezes off of the bay.  I got to hear all of the birds go to roost as the sun went down, and talk to a lot of the townspeople who were riding bikes and walking their dogs.  Most knew me by name, or in the least, knew who I was. It was a grand feeling to put my mark on a place I love so much, where I feel like God created me to belong.  It was also fun to try to maneuver myself into interesting poses with baby girl protruding from my belly.  I can't wait to tell her the story of how we painted it together.  

The commission was for a race that our town hosts every year, and was painted on the back of the refreshment stand behind the town's ball field.  

No, I am not a sign painter.  I hate straight lines and being confined to paint something that requires so much exactness.  But I did get to pick the colors.  And the colors I like.  Half naked fish man showing off his massive pecs?  Not so much.  It figures that nepotism would be the reason I got to paint King Neptune.  I projected the image of the logo onto the wall, and then it was just one big paint-by-number project.  It's a good thing it was traced...I totally would have put an extra "a" in triathlon.        

The experience of painting it was an outpouring of praise, as I thanked God for His creation and provision.  (The check I received for doing the mural was the exact amount I needed to fund visiting my sister in Massachusetts 2 months ago.)  I am so grateful that God gives me opportunities to see Him so clearly while making art.      

and p.s.... below the sign, I wanted to paint "BEWARE OF BRIDGE."  But the mayor said no.