Practice Sheets

It is the practice sheet.
Set aside to try brush strokes and colors.
Trial and error.

There’s a lot of it. Practice.
More, sometimes, than the actual work.
Nothing, it seems, comes naturally.

Not art. Not words.
Not love. Not faith.
It is hard work making it look easy.

Hard work. Hidden work.
finding the color. FInding the right touch.
The right energy to use when it matters.

You learned it from your mother,
the art of making it look natural.
You learned it from your mother,

but she never taught you the why.
and as you have aged, you have wondered just that.
Why it is not allowed to look hard,

why we don’t let the work of life show
when it is where the magic happens,
one practice stroke at a time.

About this poem

My mom was superb at lots of things. Everything seemed easy to her. It wasn’t, of course. It rarely is. She told me more than once, “never let them see you sweat.”. Something I took to heart. But as I have aged, I question that advice. Not the practice. Not the work. But the cloak of invisibility that made it look easy. What’s wrong with people knowing it’s work? Nothing I say. Maybe they would value what we do more if they knew the effort.

Or many I am just too lazy to hide it anymore. That is certainly possible.

A poem about art, life, love, faith. Poetry is never about one thing, because everything is mixed together. At least in my life they are.

Happy Monday!

Tom

PS: The photograph was taken in my studio. I use a lot of practice sheets.