Don't Bury Your Talent

I've knowN since the third grade that I've had an artistic talent. It was then that my teacher suggested to my parents that I be given art lessons. Never happened. I didn't get an opportunity again for classroom artwork until my first year of college.
Off and on, I've burried and used that talent, never being consistant with either.
Recently, I've decided to change that for the good. (Makes it sound like a superpower when I say it like that, huh?)

After nearly six months of sewing up a storm, my sad little Singer has been pushed to the the back corner, literally. In it's place, an array of paints, brushes, canvases, charcoal vines, and of course my trusty easel. Finally, everything has a place and stays scattered just like a real studio should look. For once, a disheveled room in my house that's supposed to look that way.

My office and studio space sits behind two silky burnt-orange panels of fabric that hang across the wide opening of an 'intended' dining room. (A waste for the All-American family we are, eating every dinner parked in front of the TV.) The curtains give me privacy when I work and provide a hiding place from my organized chaos. Recently, I treated myself to a small CD stereo with a REMOTE! Perfect for the girl who can change her musical mood on a dime. I've tried FM radio - too many commercials. I've tried CD compilations that I've burned, but none compares to my old standby: Rod Stewart. The Great American Songbook album is so....je ne sais quoi. It's smooth, romantic, playful, raspy. I love it; Jason says he just keeps waiting for Rod to clear his throat. :/ Whatever. I just seem to get lost in the melodies and can paint effortlessly to it.

"Painting effortlessly" is not something that I do of my own accord. I must give credit where it is due, and that is to my Heavenly Father. This talent that comes through my hands is from God and I recognize that. It fulfills me like no other task I attempt and it pours so much joy into my life. It feels so good to create works full of vivid color and movement seen in the brush lines. When I finish a painting, I have usually formed an attachment to it. Crazy as that sounds, it's so true. It's something that I've grown to love as I've poured over it, making it 'just right'. If I don't love it, it's not ready to go. Selling my first few paintings recently was bittersweet - I loved them so, I didn't want them to leave. However, knowing that someone else connected with what they saw made my heart full. Another person found something they wanted to treasure. You cannot ask for a better reward.

I do paint from my heart, about things that I love, and things that inspire. If you know me at all, you're already aware of the stories behind certain symbols in my work. Besides bright colors, I've always been drawn to curvy lines and scrolls; can't really explain that one. Pineapples have been something I've collected for nearly twenty years. On a trip to Jamaica, I bought my very first pineapple carved from wood from a young boy on the beach. I have a countless collection of them now: glass, wood, copper, enamel. They symbolize hospitality and what self-respecting Southern girl can deny that? Fleur de lis always remind me of my sister, Susan. That seems to be her thing and she has her own collection scattered throughout her home in Starkville, MS. The peacock feathers will always represent my Memaw. No, she was not a peacock, nor did she collect peacocks. :p She did, however, have a huge clay vase in her hallway chock FULL of shimmery peacock feathers. If you were to ask the kid in me, "she had a million". Every visit I made to her house (and there were many) I'd ask (more like plead) for just o n e feather. I was shot down every time, too. Now that I've got kids, I know why she said no. If I got one, we all had to get one. She wasn't about to dole out a fist full of feathers to rowdy kids who would likely be 'over it' in mere minutes. Plus, I'm kind of "partik'lar" about my stuff. When I get something arranged, don't touch it. Kapish? The sweet ending to that story, though, is that on my 23rd birthday, she gave me her present (don't even remember what was inside) and taped to the top of that box was...a single peacock feather. When she died, I don't know what happened to those feathers, but what I wouldn't give for them today.

So, the next time you look through my paintings, please know that I'm not just painting to be painting. It's coming from my heart - memories, love - and hopefully finding it's way right into yours.

What talent are you sharing with others?

DPG