This morning I went to take down an art show that has a been up at the Equinox Village Gallery for the past month. Normally, taking down a show is kind of sad for me, and that was particularly the case for this one. The Equinox Village Gallery is a beautiful venue, light and airy, the kind of place my painting show particularly well.

The people there are nice too. The staff was wonderfully gracious in helping me set the show up, and provided delicious food, professional publicity and a friendly audience. So pulling things down had a particular poignancy

But that was soon to change.

As I was taking paintings down, several of the residents came by and told me how much they enjoyed my paintings. When they did, I asked them which one they liked most.

“That one.” One woman said, pointing to a painting I call ‘Swish’.

“Why?” I asked. “Because it reminds me of when I was young.” She said, closing her eyes and swaying like a young girl in a new dress, a little smile on her face. Suddenly, I could see the teenage girl she once was.

Another woman pointed to a small watercolor. “I like that one best.” She said, and then she pointed to ‘Swich”, but this is the one I kept looking at.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I felt threatened by her. It reminded me of the aggressive hussies on my block when I was growing up.”

Same painting. Two radically different emotions. Briefly I wondered if the two woman would have liked each other when they were young. I wondered if they like each other now.

A couple of others stopped in. Shared their favorites. Shared their feelings, sometimes in depth.

Then I went to Subway, where another diner pointed at me when I walked in. “You!” She said. “You’re the artist at the Equinox.” I must have looked bewildered. Because I was. Abstract artists are not exactly in vogue in my little corner of Vermont. She pointed to my Isuzu Trooper, stacked full of art that I was taking home. “Can I go look?” She asked. “There’s one that just made me cry every time I looked at it.”

Come on. What could I say? I took her out, Unlocked the car and we flipped to the one she liked, a vibrant one that I had once titled ‘Orgasm” when I first painted it, then later tuned down the title to a less provocative ‘Passion”.

She stared at it and sure enough, a tear trickled down her cheek. “How much is it?” She asked.

I told her the price, but cut it in half. Heck, I probably would have given it to her. She took it and got in her car and drove off. She left her food still on her table in the Subway.

I have no idea what she felt. But she felt. So did those others.
I only sold one painting off of the gallery show. And of course the half price parking lot special. But that’s OK. I began selling paintings hoping to make enough to pay for my supplies. To sell more than that (and I do, now) is a wondrous surprise.

Because I paint to express feelings. Just as I write poetry to express feelings. There was a time in my life that I had lost the ability to feel as deeply as I should. I had lost the ability to express more than the most basic emotions. And the decade or so since then has been a been one long journey in recovering that ability, and relearning how to express it. And I am still nowhere near where I want to be. So the journey continues.

Worlds are pretty universal. They have meaning. Carefully craft those words and you’ll do a reasonable job of expressing yourself. Most people, whether they agree or disagree, whether they like your words or don’t, at least have some idea what you are talking about.

But my paintings are more personal. There is no universal language of art. I paint, not things, but emotions and while I am touched by those feelings when I paint, there’s a better than average chance that some people will have no idea what my canvas is about.

But with that lack of specific artistic language comes a freedom. An opportunity to simply let the colors and lines speak to the subconscious and find….. Feelings. And at times, somehow, miraculously, they do.

Knowing how precious that ability to feel is. Having nearly lost it in the business of surviving life instead of living it. Knowing these things in my own life means that when something I do, something I write, or something I paint creates emotion, whether it is a memory of youth, or a feeling of being threatened, then I know that in this part of my life, there is purpose. I’ve helped bring out something in their heart.

And that my friends, is joy indeed.

Be well. Travel Wisely.

Tom

PS: I am still sitting at the Subway while I write this. The poor woman never did come back for her lunch.