Art lesson

Greetings once again. I need to tell you a story about this painting. I just finished it this morning, Tuesday, June 5th, 2012, around 12:30pm. 

I started it in 2006.

It was commissioned by my uncle, Richard who took a photo of this fishing village in Nova Scotia. He had paid me up front, in 2006, which of course, "burned a hole in my pocket," as it were, and the his hard-earned money quickly dwindled into nothing due to my childish spending habits. I began the painting with great enthusiasm and pride because I finally felt like a true professional artist because I was being paid to create a work of art.

But years had begun to pass without working on the painting at all, partly because I didn't have time during school and work, but mostly it was because I got frustrated with how certain parts had turned out. (I won't disclose which parts of the painting because they are like deep wounds in my artistic soul that have taken the same amount of years to heal as it took me to finish the painting) I thought the colors were off, some areas were too detailed and others wobbly and fuzzy, and I began to resent the painting. Angrily, I tucked it away in the basement, hoping that everyone would just forget about it. 

Well, that didn't happen. My mom continually kept asking me, "When are you going to finish Richard's painting?" (She also reminded me numerous times that I was, indeed, paid to do this, as if I wasn't already aware of it) There were several occasions when my uncle had asked about it, which of course, made me feel completely awful, and I became even more resentful, guilt-ridden, and depressed.

So where did my motivation finally come from this morning, you ask? 

It could be that I was sick and tired of feeling guilty, with all of this free time that I have been graciously given and the money that was given to me to do it. It could be that I have been thinking a lot about how my artistic skills have been in hibernation since I left high school and would like to wake them from their slumber. It could also be that I have grown more aware of how I tend to start things with great passion, enthusiasm, and direction, but then I lose focus, become discouraged, and eventually give up and never finish anything. 

Whichever the reason, I am happy that I have finally finished it. Now here comes the tough part: I must say, it is not at all my best work. It hurts me to say that for multiple reasons: First, I hate the fact that I have created a piece of art that is now in existence of which I am not truly proud. Second, I hate that I am actually allowing it to be viewed by anyone other than myself because I am so embarrassed and disgusted by it, and lastly, I am hurt because I am giving it to someone who has paid me--someone who trusts in my talent and expertise--to paint a beautiful work of art and I feel as though I have failed him.

Right now as I am typing this post, I keep glancing over at it, going over all of the parts that I hate, saying to myself, "Ugh, that part sucks" and I am constantly thinking about other artists' work that I've seen and wishing that I could be just as good. I keep asking questions like "Why can't my water look as good as that artist's?"

But here is what I have gained from this experience, and it is a great lesson:

I have realized that I need to view this painting as though I were viewing myself: as a beautiful work of art.

Now, of course I could say that this painting is not technically painted well--with accurate proportions, consistent brush techniques, and all of that "mumbo-jumbo"--and I'm sure there are many other great works of art out there that do contain these elements of advanced painting skills.

But as I compare this painting to myself, we have a lot in common. 

For years I have admired and looked up to many different people--godly people--in my life. I have witnessed their wisdom, maturity, and boldness and have always wished that I could "be just like them" someday. But instead of being inspired by their lives, I could only focus on those qualities which I didn't possess. I could only see my flaws and the areas in which I always stumbled and never seemed to improve. And I became stuck.

But I have learned that it takes quite a bit of boldness and faith to be able to not view myself so negatively. Sometimes when we are looking so closely at ourselves, only seeing flaws and imperfections, always comparing ourselves to others and the ideal of what we "ought to be," we become discouraged, depressed, and lose focus of what truly matters.

God sees us--and he wants us to see ourselves--as beautiful works of art, because that is truly what we are. We are His handiwork. Not only do we need to embrace that truth, but we also need to recognize when we have become locked in this state of self-mutilation and despair and then know how to conquer it. 

Just how I need to continually accept the fact that my painting is flawed and there are so many things about it that I would like to change, we need to be aware that we may have parts about us that we don't like or would like to change, but we need to recognize that our loving Father, the painter, sees us as beautiful, no matter what stage of the "painting" we are in. And take comfort in this, beloved:

"I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ." Philippians 1:6

Mr. Rochester Complex

Last week I watched a very impressive film adaptation of Charlotte Brontë's "Jane Eyre."

After getting over the absurdity of Rochester's character--mainly how unconventionally emotional and moody he is for a grown man--I had actually started to feel as though I possess a certain likeness to Rochester. I am not referring to his somber demeanor or ill-temperedness, but rather how he inadvertently disappears from the world for days or weeks at a time without warning and without consequence. Oh how sometimes I long for that freedom to jump on a horse and ride off into the unknown, not knowing when I will return, and not feeling obligated to alert someone when I will leave again. I am envious of the way Rochester can disappear like that because it is so freeing to be able to just stop doing the ordinary and play hooky for a while.

Some people in my life can attest that I go through periods of time when I remove myself from activities and social gatherings and I become very aloof. I confess that I get a thrill out of this mild form of rebellion because I do not like being caged in by routine and the feeling of duty. I like to do the unexpected and avoid doing the predicted.


What I have discovered, however, is that Rochester is a deeply wounded individual. He is alone, with no one to ask him where he is going or when he will return.

I, on the other hand, have plenty of people who will ask me, "Where were you?" or "Are you coming?" There have been so many instances where I become irritated with this sort of attention. I think, "Can't you all just leave me alone?" But really, I don't believe deep in my heart that is what I truly want.

I know that each of us, no matter how confident we seem to be, are constantly asking ourselves, "Am I loved? Do people really like me?" The answer may be found differently for each person. For some it is how many text messages you have received in a day. It could be found in how many facebook friends you have. Or for a lot of us, I am sure that it can be answered in how often we get invited to weekend events. It is on those Friday and Saturday nights when we are sitting alone in our houses with our cell phone in hand when we begin to question how much we are loved--or if we are loved at all.

What I don't realize when I start to become annoyed with multiple text messages from my mom or only receiving phone calls from the same two people all of the time--is that each of these little attempts at communicating with me are coming from people who love me dearly. These are the people who lovingly await my return and desire my company. I need to recognize that with each text message, every phone call, and every other little commonplace conversation I have with them, each time they are sprinkling me with love. I am thankful that if I do choose to ride off into the sunset, I will have someone waiting for me when I return.