Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Dreaming of Restoring Paintings

Of course I'm still dreaming about Gary Sinise's smiling face, but I'm not suppose to talk about it - - last night I dreamed about a painting and as it wasn't really clear to me when I woke up if I was the painter or if I was merely restoring the painting, it was clear that it was a beautiful old painting that was being revived.

When I was younger I painted an abstract that was immediately challenged by anyone and everyone that saw it. I literally hit the canvass with color and used tools to spread the flow of the thickened paint from one side to the other. I cut through the reds with peach, I drilled blues into the emeralds and washed the arrogant face of the purple mass with sassy and irreverent yellow - because I could.

After a few good hours of just killing the idea of creating anything that looked remotely like anything I considered my work complete. I called it "Aggravation!" I remember looking back and realizing that the azure of the new portrait had certainly won the battle over royal - I must have been thinking something oceanic! When I was finished and the painting had dried I took several pictures of it - none that I can find today, and the actual painting was thrown away by an even angrier person in my life about 10 years ago. Nevertheless, the portrait is very clear in my mind, its waves and retreats etched for everlasting and they will be there at any time when I recall my frustrated means of expressing my moment in color. I wish I could do that more often - I really wish I could.

In my dream the painting was anything but angry - it was transparent, inspiring, uplifting, amazingly simple but elegant. It was breathing, it was living, it was looking to me for life but I had no life to give, I had to ask my own Creator for help, which I did, and the thing became my soul. That must have been my reasoning for not knowing if I was the painter or just the restoring factor - I had to help in the process, but I don't believe I was the artist - I held perhaps the new and inviting hues in my hands and I lent them out to Him as He pushed them onto the emptiness that became my energy - my life. The restoring part of the dream; now I was involved in that. It was up to me to go back and clean it up, but I was not alone. I probably borrowed the tools from a very giving hand - and as each color began to show again, became bright again, began to live again - I remember smiling and thinking "How big is God anyway?"

It's a valid question.

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