Misery. The pain of being without my oils and brushes is a pain that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. My thoughts are consumed by violets, cobalt blues, crimson reds and mustard yellows. I dream of mixing olive greens from the blues and reds and forming them into the shape of the trees that haunt me. The pain begins early in the morning, from the moment I step out of the door. I look for the mud to soil my feet. This is where I’ll find the trees.
I take the way without cars, the way only herds of cattle and weary pilgrims cross. Here, the sight of the first Eucalyptus tree brings tears to my eyes. Not even the rain can keep up. The tears tread past my cheeks and roll off my chin into the dirt. They look like the river I’ve been waiting to cross.
“I’m lost,” I cry. “Who the fuck is a painter that doesn’t paint?”
I walk off the path and sit under an oak tree, knees curled into my chest, head resting between my legs. The birds sing as I sob beneath the shaded shelter of the tree’s branches. We’ve created quite the song, the birds and I. And I wish I could paint them too. The sitting only lasts so long before I turn around to face the tree. I give it a hug. The bark scratching my face until the tears stop. A moment of rest.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the tree. “All I want is to show other people how beautiful you are.” I kiss the tree and say goodbye.. I’ll never see it again.
The way separates the traffic lights and the city’s noise from the green of the forest. And I dream of paint in every step. Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of thickened paste to squeeze on my palate. I don’t think of food, I think of paint. And the memory of the colors keeps me full. The colors are enough satisfy my hunger for a hot meal. I ask the spring to plant me a tree and let it grow. I want nothing but my oils. Nothing else besides the medium to make the colors last and the solvent to make the colors disappear again. I will use my fingers and my toes to work, mixing the paint with my hands.
Wind, make the leaves shake. I’ll watch them dance. Give me paints to study every flurry of wind. “God, can you hear me? I’d treat a grease-stained pizza box if it meant that I could work. I’ll receive whatever you can muster up with open arms.”
The pain and misery of painting is a longing so deep. I live for work that I can’t make.. paintings that only live in my mind. The greatest pain of painting is not painting at all. It is a pain that I refuse to indulge any longer.