Painting life

26 Sep

A clearing in the forest. A medium canvas on a wooden easel. I dreamt I was painting a woman.

She was standing, her back to me, in a pastel pink satin and organza dress. I was painting her neck, the fine strands of wavy hair rippling under her large-brim hat, around her silky shoulders.

My brush gave her life. She was free from the canvas and stood before me gazing at the forest and humming to herself, as I worked on her green-grey hat. It stirred gently in the wind and so did her auburn hair curling around her neck.

The forest murmured in the wind. The canopy swayed and rustled, patches of sun light danced on the ground. I kept weaving intricate straw braids on her hat. In a strong gust of wind, leaves fell from the trees –we shivered.

I stepped back when I was done and contemplated the canvas. Such disappointment! I looked at my fat brush, grudgingly. This wasn’t the right tool for such delicate work! Yet it seemed so perfect, so real moments before.

It was a beautiful dream within a strange dream.

I don’t paint very often and I don’t have an illustration of the mysterious auburn belle in pink, so all I can think of is this yellow iris in my parents’ garden that I drew on iPad last May.

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