More about painting

Last blog, I spoke about the underpainting in an old masters-style oil painting. On a similar theme, I don't know if I have ever mentioned my reaction the day that I finished my first realistic still life in my tutor's studio. There was a lemon in the front of the still life, and I struggled a bit to paint it realistically on canvas, as I learned to use fan brushes and to internalize the relevant color theory. But with some coaching, suddenly, before my very eyes, there was a lemon that looked so real and three-dimensional, I could have picked it off the canvas and squeezed it into a pitcher of lemonade. I burst into tears. It was such an unexpected sense of power, of creation. To some extent, the key is in the lighting, presenting objects in a bright, focused light that is the catalyst for similarly dark shadows. In subsequent months, I would paint realistic eggs, pears, apples and other circular edibles. The globe shape -- like the face and much of the human body -- makes for very satisfying light-dark contrasts and shadows. 

What does this have to do with my life right now? It's been a wrenching week, as I have at least mentally released some very limiting patterns, relationships, and beliefs. Heading into those darker darks has, however, helped me uncover some hidden joy. For about ten minutes yesterday, I was beside myself with happiness, for no reason. I looked in the mirror, and thought, "I look different, younger." This morning, I'm feeling teary again. Augh! But it's hitting me that anyone who can paint a realistic lemon or pear must, eventually, be able to create a realistic, workable life, one that will hold together as a composition. (And by this, I am thinking "realistic, workable" less by the standards of society, and more by the standards of love.) Maybe shining a little more love "light" on my life will help me see the beauty that already exists in my composition.