How I view my art teacher |
THE HAND OF GOD (For my art teacher, Terry O'Connor) September 14, 2006 I saw the colors cobalt, and alizarin, and taupe. Each was on a palette in its designated spot. I watched the hand of God, Himself, apply them to the board, and when He finished daubing, each were all in one accord. He took the dark of umber and the red of sienna too and mixed them both and shaped them beneath the band of blue until they formed a mountain that spanned across the scene with forest trees whose canopies were bobbing dabs of green. With a simple sweep of elbow and a flick of His great wrist, a path, a roof, a hamlet escaped his daedal fist. With just a touch of oil and a bit of white for hue the sun appeared in detail off a single drop of dew. A magic wand, his paint brush, full of earth and wind and fire; when waved the world sprung to life; the stars shone brighter, higher. One stroke had caused the sea to breathe in undulating swells; another bid the symphony to play complete with bells and strings and wild things that pluck and strum the brain, or sound like trumpets blowing when there’s thunder in the rain. I watched that wand and marvelled at the wonder that it brought and wondered if I’d learn it all through lessons that he taught. Could I, some day, command the clouds and put life in a hock, and dapple meadows full of shadows chasing light on rock? Could my work crackle like a flame where colors melt on wood like the slowly rising sun upon the nooks of neighborhoods? Now I watch him mix some withers, a cannon bone, a tail and place them on the canvas where they’ll gallop down the trail. How I hope that one day I will glean the skill I need from this accomplished man who can turn a daub into a steed! |