The Art Of Saturday

The sunrise looked as if it had been painted by Bob Ross. First, a deep crimson line was stroked across the horizon, behind the trees. By the time I had started the coffee, the unflappable old painter had taken a wide, dry brush and blended in some yellow and turned the eastern canvas into a benign lampshade glow. Ol’ Bob used to astound me with the rapidity with which he wielded a brush or knife to produce startling effects. And so it is with sunrise and sunset and clouds — by the time one fetches a camera with which to record the moment, the entire scene can shift. Each microsecond of nature is a masterpiece.

My wife got me an acrylic paint set some time ago, and I have dabbled with it enough to reach a few conclusions. One, painting really is enjoyable and therapeutic…I can lose myself in it in the same way I can lose myself in puttering in the garden or ironing (and yes, I do enjoy ironing, as most old Marines do). Two, I have absolutely no talent for painting. And three, I have a fresh respect for artists who can actually produce objects that actually look like what the artist envisioned. There is a certain arrogance among many today, helped along by the repulsive garbage known as postmodern art, that anyone can just grab up a brush, swish it around in some Van Dyke brown, and create art. Likewise, the same breezy assumptions crouch behind the oft-heard statement, “I may write a book someday.” Two sides of the same tin coin. “If I can draw a stick figure, I can produce art, and If I can write a sentence, I can write.”

Certain types of paintings, like music, evoke the deepest, most lingering emotions in me. One of my absolute favorite works is the four-painting work known as “The Voyage of Life” by Thomas Cole.  I visited the Smithsonian’s National Gallery of Art and found the four paintings in a small, octagonal room. I spent almost two hours in there, just staring at each painting in turn, letting Mr. Cole’s transcendent message coat me like a mist.

When I was a boy, a cheap print of DaVinci’s “The Last Supper” hung over our kitchen table. If memory serves, my aunt (the rogue Catholic) gave it to us. I used to spend long periods sitting and staring at this picture. For some reason, the hills in the background behind Christ Jesus fascinated me. Something about those hills was familiar to me, as if I had been there before. I felt that I was looking at a painting of a beloved land I had once walked. The food on the table and the large pitcher on the floor were also familiar in an eerie fashion, but not to the degree the hills behind Jesus were familiar. Gazing at Cole’s “The Voyage of Life” gives me that same sensation that I am experiencing a long-dormant memory. This is my only true apprehension of pure art.

My wife and I were out and about today, running errands, doing some grocery shopping, and enjoying the superb weather. Shocking blue skies, temperature about 60F, and the earth creaking and groaning with all the buds, blooms, and blossoms bursting forth across the mountains and hollows. I’ve been wanting to make some new hanging bird feeders, so we went to The Dollar Tree to scout out some cheap metal plates. Because metal won’t swing so wildly in a strong breeze, that’s why. While we were browsing, I saw something that restored my faith in…well, in The Dollar Tree.

I searched for a half-hour for a marshmallow rosary, but it just wasn’t meant to be.

After we left, we went to a quirky thrift/antique shop where we’ve previously found some really good deals on some hard-to-find items. I felt drawn to a particular section of the store, and if you’ve ever felt like you’ve been guided by the hand of destiny, you might understand how I felt when I looked up on a shelf and saw this:

What may be the last fire of the season is blazing in the wood stove, so it’s time to open a book and drowse a bit. Perhaps I will dream of the hills outside Jerusalem. Or of a dark river and an angel above it, beckoning me onward. Or maybe my dreams will reveal to me the location of the elusive Holy Spirit napkin rings and St. Thomas Aquinas oven mitts.

~ S.K. Orr