Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever. (Mahatma Gandhi).
As the age of 76 appears in my too-near future, I study acrylic painting. Its layers. Its idiosyncrasies. I tend to find optical illusions without trying. See how this twig seems to come directly from the child’s arm, my teacher says.
Nope, I hadn’t seen that at all.
I take flat stripes of one color and blend them into another with or without water depending upon the stage of development.
White paint makes colors opaque.
Green should contain more than one syllable. College art courses teach about this elusive color. For an entire semester. And more.
A drop or two of black added to cobalt blue brings down its power.
I watch the May leaves on the trees with fresh enthusiasm. The power of reflective light working with shadow.
The power of light and shadow in life. Both real. A memory of intense fear strikes me. Unexpectedly. I don’t deny it, but don’t embrace it either. I add another memory.
My grandson and I are gathering rocks in a wagon. “You won’t live forever,” he says.
“That’s right. So, let’s enjoy the sun today and get some more rocks.”
“Okay. Want to go up the street and look?”
I smile. Why not?
We come back to paint our collection. My grandson blends every color in a messy experiment. Gray. I watch as he explores. Perfection is not the goal. Celebration is.
terrypetersen 