* Expressing our truth can be the most difficult thing imaginable if we’re not used to it. I certainly wasn’t when I first started painting from my imagination. The recipe above looks easy. It’s a matter of steps, right? One, two, three. Actually, it doesn’t HAVE to be hard. We think something is going to be hard, and then it usually is. I avoided painting from my imagination for a long time. I much preferred having a model to draw or paint from, or a still life, or something in Nature. But I guess I knew that I wasn’t grappling with my inner truth. Not that I had to. No one said that I HAD to. It’s always a choice.
Inner Truth, Inner Knowing. Inner Feelings. These things can be quite different from what is expressed outwardly, as we know. It’s not that we’re trying to lie or to hide, or be dishonest. More that we can’t always say, verbally, how we feel. It doesn’t matter what the reasons are. But we have to find some way to ‘speak’ our truth. Better that than erupting in anger or sulking, or finding other ways to sabotage a relationship.
I’ve always admired those who can seemingly just ‘be themselves’ without worrying about what others might think. And yet all that bravado might be to cover up a most tender heart. Who knows? I do know that those of us who tend to be more quiet and reserved – we’re usually the ones that can spend hours painting (or writing) – because we need that outlet.
oil on canvas by NW 1981
The first time I was Really Real was on a canvas. I was unhappy in my relationship, but afraid to ‘rock the boat.’ And anyway, were things really all that bad? I don’t remember the trigger that caused me to choose to do this particular painting. I was probably mad. Yet there is no anger in the picture – only sadness. A terrible sadness, and a terrible hurt. A hurt and a sadness that was so honest and so clearly expressed, that there could be no going back. No pretending it wasn’t there. The odd thing was, my husband at the time didn’t see it. He didn’t see that it was us. He thought it was a wonderful painting. Which convinced me even more of our lack of communication. In the end, what mattered was that I was finally not afraid to be honest. Even if it was only a picture. I said what I had to say later. It was the painting that gave me the courage. Because I’d had the courage to paint it in first place. Even though it broke me up and hurt like hell to come out with the truth.
