The Painter

The painter holds her brush deftly, and paints a diagonal black line across the canvas. She doesn't know what it will become. Her gesture seemed right at the moment of doing, as she takes the line for a walk, as Paul Klee put it. Suddenly, in the middle of the canvas, she stops, or did the line stop itself? She lifts the brush from the surface. She feels an undefined mood within that has become part of the process. It permits her mind to roam freely as it scans the white space before her. She holds her brush loosely, it could fall from her limp hand at any moment. but it doesn't, because hand and brush have become one. Her thoughts are arrested, something older and mysterious brings forth a memory: A woman and a man stand together, intensely aware of each other's presence. He leans toward her, into her space. She leans also, into his space. And the two become one shape. This is the moment the painter senses the whole picture, not in her mind, but in her hand. She trusts hand and brush, and knows every stroke that the painting requires. She hums snatches of favorite songs as the couple take on the reality of her remembrance.But something else is happening. She can feel it but can not name it. That is not important. What is important is the life the figures will live. She is in command now, or so it seems as the painting comes into existence. The light remains steady, no shadows mar her gestures. The painter feels a mood of calm enter her mind and the painting.