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In the Studio by Linda Carole Fishback December 7, 2006 The century old window barely diffuses a morning's early gray winter light. The room is bathed in an ethereal glow. The floor boards, damp and cold beneath my bare and calloused feet. The wooden easel looms, a great old ship in the fog. My hands feel heavy, my shoulders sag, weighted by the journey ahead; my fingers barely feel my brush, my luggage dangling there. My eyes, straining past recent sleep, squint up at the great sail, a canvas before me, white, blank and silent. It waits. A cloud of turpentine and linseed floats, asented memory hovers near the beams. A mother painting in a kitchen, a rusted coffee can of brushes, a stained and tattered rang hangs over its edge while the child watches from a table. I stand just as you stood; I ponder just as you did; I reach out, I retreat, I feel your uncertainty, was it dread? I feel the pull, demand of paint, the bleeding bristles canvas to weep into. About the author: A nontraditional college student in the final lap of an art degree while raising a 7 year old, volunteering on political campaigns, pursuing photography and commission art and desperate to make a liberal thumbprint on the landscape. | | | |
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