How Do They Know?

My town hosted a celebration of one of our most well-known artists last week.  It would have been Dr. I.B. Beale’s 100^th birthday, were he still with us.  He was a painter who captured a multitude of scenes around the area during his years in Centerville.  I loaned my two Beale watercolors for display and as I was taking them off the wall, I recalled an article I wrote about “Doc” many years ago. 

 

By the time I wrote my story, he was a considered a senior citizen, although thinking of him as a “old person” would not enter the mind of anyone who knew him.  “If you never sold a painting,” I asked, “would you still paint?”  He looked at me like I was crazy.  “Of course I would,” he said.  It was the answer I expected.  If a work of art appears and asks an artist to serve, it’s the duty of the artist to serve.

My great aunt’s drama teacher took it a step further.  She said that if God gives you a creative gift, it’s not only a duty to use it, but also a sin not to use it.  My great aunt took it to heart and, as comedian Minnie Pearl, gave the gift of laughter to audiences all over the world for over fifty years.

I have been fortunate enough to have known and been around many creative people in my life.  Musicians, writers, painters, needle-workers, woodworkers, performers – all had one thing in common and that was a dedication to their gift, whatever it was.  I’ve also been fortunate to have a tremendous love of reading, which has introduced me to the creative process in people I’ve never met, during times that were not my time.  

Even after all that, it’s still a mystery to me how it works. I have, in a small way, experienced creation myself.  Time spent staring at a blank page, hoping words will eventually fill the pages.  Waking up with words tumbling through your head while you scramble for a paper and a pen that will write.  It’s not always easy.

There is something that compels the artist to paint, the musician to play, the writer to write and the sculptor to sculpt.  But how do they do it? How does a cook know exactly what herb is needed in a new creation, or when to stop adding the spice that makes a humdrum dish a masterpiece? How did a 24-year-old John Prine know how to write Hello in There? How did Kris Kristofferson know to put together the line about echoing "through the canyons like disappearing dreams of yesterday?" How did a deaf Beethoven know how the Ninth Symphony would sound?

How does an artist know exactly which color to use for that little glimmer of light in the corner of his painting of a storm – or know to place a golden leaf in just the right spot on a gray tree trunk?

How does a sculptor know what image lurks in the clay?  How does a woodcarver know what is contained in the heart of a block of wood?  How does a quilter know just what colors to place side by side in a patchwork stitched together with love, a quilt that warms not only the body but the soul?

I don’t understand it – no one really does.  But somehow creation still happens, in spite of the hurting world we live in and maybe because of it.  Artists still paint their souls on canvas.  Musicians still pour out healing words, whether it’s in a stadium filled with cheering fans or on a dusty stage in an out of the way honky-tonk.  Writers still are compelled to share secrets of life and love, to make readers laugh or cry, to help them understand what they didn’t even know they needed to know. Filmmakers and photographers still know just how to capture the moments that tug at our heartstrings or inspire us to try to heal the hurting people in the world.  The more I think about it, the more I believe that the artists are the real prophets and preachers.  We will never know exactly how they do it.  Maybe we don’t need to know.  We just need to be grateful that they do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

October

 

I really needed to clean my house today.  And I meant to make soup.  But the clear song of the wind chimes lured me to the porch.  The gentle sway of the swing enticed me to sit.  I took a book with me, but it lay beside me unopened.  And thoughts of cleaning or cooking were lost in an October haze.

I have often made attempts to learn to meditate, to sit in stillness and calm my mind.  The closest I can come are those times in the porch swing, when the world is bright and the only sound is the music of the universe.  This was one of those times.

October makes up for August, which I would just as soon skip. Lucy Maud Montgomery, one of my favorite authors, said, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers,” and I have to agree.  We have been blessed with a weekend of halcyon days – perfect weather that makes up for the summer we endured.  It was a busy time in my small town.  A quilt show, a craft show and the National Banana Pudding Festival brought visitors to town in droves.  I went to a friend’s place Saturday night for an outdoor showing of a Simon and Garfunkel concert under the stars, with a sliver of moon peeping through the trees. Luckily Monday was another perfect porch swing day.

The lone maple tree in my front yard is brushed just slightly with yellow and dogwoods across the way are frosted with red.  The breeze murmurs secrets through the leaves and the golden autumn light strikes sparks off the sumacs at the edge of the woods.  Already some leaves are falling, too impatient to wait for their new colors.  The sprinkle of leaves on the ground will become a heap, enticing small children and dogs to burrow.  My mom used to rake the leaves.  I prefer to ignore them.   

The dogs sprawl in the sunshine, ignoring the distant barking of neighbor dogs and pretending not to notice the crows raiding the pecan trees along the garden fence.  Butterflies visit the last of the roses by the porch, and the mums reveal their blooms of yellow and gold.  The hummingbirds are gone, on their way to their winter homes, and the feeders hang abandoned at the edge of the porch.

Crows call and a mockingbird cheers.  In the distance, I hear the hum of a mower and the occasional screech of a hawk, patrolling for a late lunch or early dinner.  I cannot see them, but I hear squirrels in the woods, rustling through the leaves in search of food.   A few shreds of clouds float just above the horizon and a half moon rides pale in the sky, just visible against the blue.

I ignore the clutter of weeds in the yard and the tools lying unused on the shelf.  There will be other days to clear summer’s leftovers, other days to clean the house and make soup.  Today is a day to meditate on October.