Cadmium Red

It's been two years since I last painted. That's pretty typical for me. I paint, sculpt, draw, and invent in spurts. For a season, I'll wake up each day with a mind full of colors, shapes, and ideas that pour out easily into art. I drink in the richness of nature; the smells, layers, textures, a heart full of gratitude for God's generous creation, and a feeling of kinship with all artists. I paint during those times because I *must*.
Then, gradually, the desire ebbs. The way that I see the whole world changes, 'normalizes'.. and it's gone. I don't want to make art anymore.
When I was younger and first recognized this departure of feeling, I fought it bitterly, grieved it, thinking I was losing something I could never regain. In the years since, I have come to accept this cycle - relax in it, even enjoy it. I've learned to just let it go. I make room in my life for something new, carry on, and know that the visual artist in me will show up again at the right time.
Two weeks ago, my cousins asked me if I would create a display for their new home: no requirements, just a few colors that provoked them and the idea of keeping it abstract. Last week, Justin asked me to make a sculpture for the Sunday service. I went crazy with copper wire and a red floodlight.
It's back.
Last night I tore through the house looking for something, anything, to paint on. I finally found a warped old canvas print that was supposed to look like an original. Bland blues, pinks, beige skies, and no imagination. Colors which have committed no offense of their own, but when put together, suck the life out of each other. I took it out of the frame and prepped it with a thick uneven layer of titanium white. I left it overnight to dry, and woke up this morning with a mind full of colors. I wish I could explain the sense of adventure I felt as I dusted off my box of paints, found my favorite brush, unscrewed the crusted-shut tube of paint, and flooded that old canvas with
cadmium red.