I had a long talk with my daughter yesterday. It was not the first time we tried to find parallels between her visual art and my word art. She had just spent two days ready, by time, place and material, to begin, but unable to put her first mark. A block appeared like a lock on her means of expression. We reviewed her works of art, many of them on the walls around us in my home. “How did they come about?” Assignments, motivation, and message were all a part of her finished works. Did she know what they would say, to her and others, when she began? Probably not.
My art is less cumbersome. It can begin with a few scratches on the back of an envelope. The trigger that launched the scribble may be forgotten, as I write to find some clarity. During my most recent writing I snatched time when it came, wrote without a plan and watched the pages pile up. Only later, did I see the meaning and message within those pieces. Writing was a release. Somehow, my hopes and fears found words and expression.
Today both of us face the unknown. I want to imagine her brush spreading oil paint on a small canvas as she searches for meaning through color and shading and image. I can only hope that she found the key to that lock that was preventing access to expressions of her heart. She will create beauty again. In time, her meaning will take form.