Why I Paint

 

The minute I arrived in this world, Someone recorded the event on paper.Soon thereafter they dressed me up, and gave me a name.Sometime; I hope not too soon, I'll leave this world.

Someone will record the event on paper, they will dress me up, and put me in a"box". Then  my name will be engraved in stone there to remain until time has erased even that. It seems to me, as far as this world is concerned the coming and the going are pretty much the same.

 

I brought nothing into this world, and I"ll  take nothing with me when I go.So, my purpose in being here must be concerned with what I leave behind.

I am, as they say, a common man. I will build no bridges, nor will I discover new things that will benefit mankind. I will personally come into contact with only a small fraction of the billions of other people living on this earth.

Yet, when  I sit and stare at  a blank paper or canvas, I"m alone in my own empty universe where, simply by painting, I can  create new worlds.I can build, destroy, laugh, or cry. No ocean is too deep, no mountain stands too high. The brush is both the creator and the conqueror.So, no matter what else may happen to me or because of me, in the end I leave behind my name. I want that name to mean something to someone.

I want to help others to look at a tree, or a flower, and see something they never saw before.

I want to show them the softness of a Robin's breast and the brittle texture of old wood;and realize there is beauty in both .

If in the final analysis it turns out that the vast audience I"m trying to reach consists mainly of my family and friends, it will in no way diminish or belittle my artistic efforts. I will measure my success not in dollars, but with regard to whether I have somehow touched someone with the strokes of my brush.

One day though, long after they have put me in my

'box" and sent me on my way, if a hand I never touched reaches up among the works of Wyeth or Bateman  or more likely lesser known others like me; and with a soft touch brushes the dust off my name;what will it matter if that hand belongs to a world leader or my own great grandchild? That hand shall give me new life, and that gazing eye shall look into the shadow of my soul. Then shall they know: it wasn't me they put in the "box", but only my flesh; for as long as my painting lives in someone's eye and heart, they have given me Immortality.

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