Post by subtlecollision on Dec 30, 2006 10:31:52 GMT -5
Having just returned from church, I decide to take a stroll down the coastline. Some wave as I walk by with paint and canvas in my arms. An elderly woman, known to all as critical and caustic, turns the other way. Even so, I smile at her. For, a painter knows beauty does not only shine brightly, but also lurks in the shadows and other things man is generally disinclined to look upon.
Nearer the sea, children frolic in the sand, and those keen to prove themselves bold venture into the frothy water. That wonderful clamor and shouting fades, for I make my way up to the old resort.
Rebellious clouds decide to eclipse the sun. Miss Madelyn, a childhood friend, sighs and closes her umbrella. Together, we embark up rickety steps, upon which the healthiest of vines encroach. Mr. and Mrs. Mason greet us from the balcony.
"How is your painting coming?” Mr. Mason asks me.
The more perceptive of the two, Mrs. Mason intervenes, “I hear there is a new sort of style of painting that seems to be in vogue with those novel artists.”
I hesitate, listening to the sea’s modest symphony. I have not painted in years. My return to Normandy was for reacquainting myself with my lost perspective. Normandy is unlike any place in the world-- every visit fills me with forgotten memories and kindles a new charm. However, I am afraid. Normandy retains so much beauty that I could never fully transfer it to the canvas. I fear my talent is unworthy of Normandy.
“Yes,” Mr. Mason says, “Something with shortening the brush strokes.”
Returning from my reverie, I reply, “I would like to paint the way a bird sings.”
“That is quite an ambition,” Mrs. Mason murmurs.
“I know.”
Later that week, I sit on a rugged hill overlooking the sparkling expanse of blue, green, and violet. I dip my brush in color and make several strokes on the canvas. How can I capture the sea with only brushstrokes? It appears as a living, breathing, and changing entity. A few more colors. A few more strokes. Paint does not live, breathe, and change.
“To hell with it!” I cry and throw my brush into the sea.
I watch it flow away, my determination along with it.
Beyond the hills, intimidating cliffs await me. Racing through the wild grass, I chuckle to myself. Once long ago, I had depicted those very cliffs. How starved of life was the outcome! And how I had forgotten! I creep closer to the edge, and I hear my breathing settle… or at least hear it be overcome by the surging song of the waves. I am but a foot from death. I am a step away from death and yet I feel so alive. The splashing, roaring color seems to fly up to me and I suddenly feel dizzy. Wobbling, my legs are paintbrushes. Too much color, too much emotion mixed together, and I may very well fall over the edge! I fall… but I catch myself and instead fall to the grass, which I had painted infinite times.
I look up. Dizzy and out of sorts, I cannot see clearly. Or perhaps I see too clearly. The dear clouds had evaded Normandy for quite some time and today left the sun to daze me. I see something fantastic, something unrealistic and yet so realistic I cannot help but withdraw another brush from my coat. Oh! Surely, I cannot fail this scene any worse than I already have.
Thus, I stain my brush in only one color. When it meets the canvas, it does something I did not expect. I do exactly as I had vowed not to do; I swamp the canvas with short, brisk brushstrokes, as Mrs. Mason claims is in vogue. However, I cannot not help myself. That is what I see in my state of dizziness.
I add another color to the canvas and then another. I do not blend them, but let the eye of the beholder blend them. For, man does not always see what exists. I see layers of glimmering colors, but know I will not for much longer. As chaos departs, I quickly accentuate the sun and his light. The painting is not realistic, but it is lifelike. My head ceases to spin and I remember that I, in my impulsiveness, nearly fell from the cliff. I find, however, that my new technique is worth it. Like a bird, I may echo the tunes of others, but there is something new-- something I vow to perfect-- in my melody.
For many years to come, I cherished that painting as if it was my finest. To me, and perhaps only me, it is not of Normandy. It is Normandy.
I enjoyed writing this more than I enjoyed writing anything I have ever written. My heart was just racing when I was writing this, so I really love it. But as to its being good or not, well, I want you guys to honestly tell me what you think.
Just the other day, I had purchased a calendar with Monet's paintings from Normandy, so I owe much inspiration to them. If anyone is unfamiliar with impressionism, which is what I described in this work, please look it up! Also, I've grown fond of present tense, but I know it can be tricky, so please pay attention to that. Oh, and I'm not sure what the correct titles of 'miss' and 'mrs' are in French... I thought they had changed but any clarification on this would be appreciated. One more thing-- the line about 'wanting to paint like a bird' is something Monet actually said. Cool, huh?
Paintings that inspired me:
www.yuricareport.com/Images3/Monet_TerraceBig40.jpg
www.latifm.com/claude_monet/large_image/a_walk_on_the_cliffs_at_pourville.jpg
146.74.224.231/archives/monet%20image.jpg
Beautiful, right?
Nearer the sea, children frolic in the sand, and those keen to prove themselves bold venture into the frothy water. That wonderful clamor and shouting fades, for I make my way up to the old resort.
Rebellious clouds decide to eclipse the sun. Miss Madelyn, a childhood friend, sighs and closes her umbrella. Together, we embark up rickety steps, upon which the healthiest of vines encroach. Mr. and Mrs. Mason greet us from the balcony.
"How is your painting coming?” Mr. Mason asks me.
The more perceptive of the two, Mrs. Mason intervenes, “I hear there is a new sort of style of painting that seems to be in vogue with those novel artists.”
I hesitate, listening to the sea’s modest symphony. I have not painted in years. My return to Normandy was for reacquainting myself with my lost perspective. Normandy is unlike any place in the world-- every visit fills me with forgotten memories and kindles a new charm. However, I am afraid. Normandy retains so much beauty that I could never fully transfer it to the canvas. I fear my talent is unworthy of Normandy.
“Yes,” Mr. Mason says, “Something with shortening the brush strokes.”
Returning from my reverie, I reply, “I would like to paint the way a bird sings.”
“That is quite an ambition,” Mrs. Mason murmurs.
“I know.”
Later that week, I sit on a rugged hill overlooking the sparkling expanse of blue, green, and violet. I dip my brush in color and make several strokes on the canvas. How can I capture the sea with only brushstrokes? It appears as a living, breathing, and changing entity. A few more colors. A few more strokes. Paint does not live, breathe, and change.
“To hell with it!” I cry and throw my brush into the sea.
I watch it flow away, my determination along with it.
Beyond the hills, intimidating cliffs await me. Racing through the wild grass, I chuckle to myself. Once long ago, I had depicted those very cliffs. How starved of life was the outcome! And how I had forgotten! I creep closer to the edge, and I hear my breathing settle… or at least hear it be overcome by the surging song of the waves. I am but a foot from death. I am a step away from death and yet I feel so alive. The splashing, roaring color seems to fly up to me and I suddenly feel dizzy. Wobbling, my legs are paintbrushes. Too much color, too much emotion mixed together, and I may very well fall over the edge! I fall… but I catch myself and instead fall to the grass, which I had painted infinite times.
I look up. Dizzy and out of sorts, I cannot see clearly. Or perhaps I see too clearly. The dear clouds had evaded Normandy for quite some time and today left the sun to daze me. I see something fantastic, something unrealistic and yet so realistic I cannot help but withdraw another brush from my coat. Oh! Surely, I cannot fail this scene any worse than I already have.
Thus, I stain my brush in only one color. When it meets the canvas, it does something I did not expect. I do exactly as I had vowed not to do; I swamp the canvas with short, brisk brushstrokes, as Mrs. Mason claims is in vogue. However, I cannot not help myself. That is what I see in my state of dizziness.
I add another color to the canvas and then another. I do not blend them, but let the eye of the beholder blend them. For, man does not always see what exists. I see layers of glimmering colors, but know I will not for much longer. As chaos departs, I quickly accentuate the sun and his light. The painting is not realistic, but it is lifelike. My head ceases to spin and I remember that I, in my impulsiveness, nearly fell from the cliff. I find, however, that my new technique is worth it. Like a bird, I may echo the tunes of others, but there is something new-- something I vow to perfect-- in my melody.
For many years to come, I cherished that painting as if it was my finest. To me, and perhaps only me, it is not of Normandy. It is Normandy.
I enjoyed writing this more than I enjoyed writing anything I have ever written. My heart was just racing when I was writing this, so I really love it. But as to its being good or not, well, I want you guys to honestly tell me what you think.
Just the other day, I had purchased a calendar with Monet's paintings from Normandy, so I owe much inspiration to them. If anyone is unfamiliar with impressionism, which is what I described in this work, please look it up! Also, I've grown fond of present tense, but I know it can be tricky, so please pay attention to that. Oh, and I'm not sure what the correct titles of 'miss' and 'mrs' are in French... I thought they had changed but any clarification on this would be appreciated. One more thing-- the line about 'wanting to paint like a bird' is something Monet actually said. Cool, huh?
Paintings that inspired me:
www.yuricareport.com/Images3/Monet_TerraceBig40.jpg
www.latifm.com/claude_monet/large_image/a_walk_on_the_cliffs_at_pourville.jpg
146.74.224.231/archives/monet%20image.jpg
Beautiful, right?
;D
