I stand in front of my well seasoned easel. It bears the marks of many misplaced strokes, colour upon colour creating, in itself, its own texture. It holds a blank canvas which peers at me, mocking me, taunting me. I am horrified at the number of brushes I can choose from, which one is right, which will give the best effect? The brushes join the assault of the canvas. They gang together.
My teacher says painting is just mark making but her marks are very different to mine. Her marks sing to each other, mine yell and fight. Her marks are in harmony, connected with the same goal of evocative beauty, sending messages to the viewer whose senses join in the chorus. My painted tune is that of a drunken opera singer screeching out beyond the boundaries of acceptable behaviour.
Why do I do this to myself. I am as much a party to the abuse by being here. I must harbour some delusion held fast in egotism.
I faulted, brush in hand. I pause and draw breath as I lunge towards the canvas armed with paint and brush. There it is done! I have begun.
(By Barb Gonda – 22 March 2025)
