Palette for Living Large
I tried a real water color class some years ago,
wondered
really
whether I should
just stand there
and watch the others,
spill paint onto the paper,
watch it
watch it
slowly drip
down
as they held their brush on an angle or try
my hand at dabbing one of my many new paint brushes
whose purposes I knew not—yet—
into the water and swishing it around,
my hand at dabbing one of my many new paint brushes
whose purposes I knew not—yet—
into the water and swishing it around,
making some pretty color.
I couldn’t figure out really how color
melds with others to make cool patterns
that blush when dry.
It wasn’t until the teacher walked by,
stopped for a brief moment of time,
pursed his lips and said,
“Hmmmm, this is looking good.
Was it me
or did his rose-colored glasses
suddenly
jump from his pocket
I couldn’t figure out really how color
melds with others to make cool patterns
that blush when dry.
It wasn’t until the teacher walked by,
stopped for a brief moment of time,
pursed his lips and said,
“Hmmmm, this is looking good.
Was it me
or did his rose-colored glasses
suddenly
jump from his pocket
to his eyes,
to my eyes, totally void
and out of touch with Prussian Blue
and that red stuff they call
Cadmium Red or the many shades of greens
that still lie dormant in the tubes in the paint kit.
It’s currently a mystery to me
how
one can push paint into strategic places
and trees, plants, perhaps a fence post or two
and even shadows of Plato
emerge from other palette colors.
I suspect if I watch long enough,
dabble here and there,
my own colors, too, will spill
enough paint onto the paper
to create something artistic
that people can actually guess
what it might be,
particularly
with several slight movements
of the head, back
and forth,
like a slow, oscillating fan,
and then spew forth the soothing words:
“Hmmm…
I like the Burnt Sienna roof on the barn.”
I think I actually used some variation of Umber.
but really who knows?
Swishing paint around the palette
has become my new definition of living
large.
to my eyes, totally void
and out of touch with Prussian Blue
and that red stuff they call
Cadmium Red or the many shades of greens
that still lie dormant in the tubes in the paint kit.
It’s currently a mystery to me
how
one can push paint into strategic places
and trees, plants, perhaps a fence post or two
and even shadows of Plato
emerge from other palette colors.
I suspect if I watch long enough,
dabble here and there,
my own colors, too, will spill
enough paint onto the paper
to create something artistic
that people can actually guess
what it might be,
particularly
with several slight movements
of the head, back
and forth,
like a slow, oscillating fan,
and then spew forth the soothing words:
“Hmmm…
I like the Burnt Sienna roof on the barn.”
I think I actually used some variation of Umber.
but really who knows?
Swishing paint around the palette
has become my new definition of living
large.
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