Twenty two pounds of paint

Twenty two pounds of paint. The post man said I got my money’s worth shipping all that from New York in a large, flat rate box. There must be over a hundred tubes of oil paints that were mine and my father’s and Jim’s grandmother’s. Alizaron crimson, raw umber, thalo blue and green. I open the box and the scent transports me back in time. Linseed oil, wet canvas, tea at Joan’s. Grumbling up in the spare room as I completed yet another still life for class. Lemons, tomatoes, pitchers, bowl and crocks – all destined to a lifetime under a bed because I cant bear to throw out all that effort, but I don’t want anyone else to see.


That was 20 years ago. The girls were little. Time was short. I would paint when they were asleep. Time stood still. Lost in a palette of colors, blending, shading, thinning, stroking. When I walked in nature, I would think color combinations. My father and I would talk colors over the phone and painting techniques we had just attempted.

How would I replicate that cloud formation? Did you realize how much purple rocks have in their shadow? Reflections in the water were so much easier when you turned the canvas upside down. “Don’t keep picking at your painting. You’re done.” Years of practice were spent before the day we were allowed outside to paint a landscape. Glorious day. The whole class came to my farm. Easels set up at the barn, easels facing the front porch and easels at the pond. The scent of paints and oil mixing with manure and fresh cut grass. What an unforgettable day. The lambs and goats walked among the painters to everyone’s delight. I tried to keep the dog from knocking over the brush cans. I still have the photos as a souvenier.

Here are the paints, handed down for generations. Still waiting for the artist to make her magic. What will they become? A mountain? A lake? A field of wildflowers? If they were still with my father they would become some wild animal in a battle for its life. We used to joke him that he could not paint a scene without some animal at least peeking out like Where’s Waldo? Most often the animal was in mortal combat. My paintings were so opposite. They were tranquil and calm. It was as if I could step out of my role of being a mom, a business owner, a farmer and a wife, onto this canvas and escape into the serenity. My sister paints in crayola colors, whimsical characters and disproportioned buildings. Her paintings make me smile. They are lively and fun and break all the rules.

Where will I begin? Will I remember my training? Have I forgotten all the steps? Could I just let myself pick up a brush and stroke with abandon? Can I just play and let my heart lead me? What good were those paints doing in the basement?

All of these emotions around twenty two pounds of paint. That is a lot of magic waiting to happen. Stay tuned!