The Mermaid Miracle

An Art Angel visited me at the edge of my driveway as I took off for a bike ride on a freezing cold February morning. The Art Angel wore a rainbow colored, hand-crocheted hat, ringed in puffy pink fluff that framed her glowing face. And although the Art Angel was walking her dogs just like Jean (my friend and neighbor), by the end of our conversation I knew that this was not Jean but a messenger sent by the Great Beret Wearer in the sky. The Art Angel radiated as she told me her story of overcoming her recent painting slump. And she bubbled with enthusiasm about my work on my web site. She made me state, out loud, my lame-ass excuses for not doing some painting myself even though I've told her many times how much I want to paint. "Squeaky, squeaky, lame-ass excuse." is what I hear myself tell the Art Angel about why I can't seem to just do a painting.

When I got home from my bike ride all of the excuses I would normally have not to start a painting were mercilessly ripped away from me. My kids were spending the afternoon at their best friend's house and Barry was working on my computer. When all else fails, my computer is where I spend my time instead of painting. I wish I could say I seized the moment but it was more like being yanked by the hair up the stairs to the studio.

That is where the battle ensued. The Planner in me says that I must make a studied sketch before I start a painting. The Artist says I must start. Now. My Artist loves directness, realness, and the emotional power that comes from spontaneity. Without a plan, or in this case a sketch, my Planner is filled with panic; she is lost and faithless. Without the security of her sketch, Planner would suck me back to the TG&Y store in Orange, TX, stranded on the pet aisle clutching my pacifier and screeching "mommy". I really didn't want to go there. So I decide to let Planner make a sketch. "I'll just sketch and see what happens. I'll sketch and then I'll paint." I say out loud. This seems to calm everybody down enough to get started.

I do a sketch of a mermaid. This is a subject that makes us all more or less happy. I have moments of indecision and second-guessing but generally the sketch goes pretty good. I get out the canvas. Planner is contented and calm as the sketch sits beside the blank canvas as a guide. And Artist is so grateful to start on the big white space, freed from the ranting and whining of Planner.

So I gobbed black paint on my brush and proceeded to break every painting rule I know. And I don't know many. And I painted in her outlines. And she was immediately not like the sketch. "Just let me paint, I'm looking at your f__king sketch!" Artist cries at Planner. My Artist cusses like a sailor, but then again so does my Planner. "Okay, go on, mess it up you weirdo." Planner says to Artist. But there was a voice, a tiny voice that was totally excited about those black lines. "Look how powerful they are, how direct, how real, how raw and unrehearsed." "Oh this is fun," we finally all say together.

And I'm feeling free and in the zone and things go on that way. It goes easily, like I'm being guided, the time passes without my notice. I was connected and in the flow and loving every minute. The mermaid is looking emotional. She looks open; she looks not quite right, slightly off balance. And I find myself able to listen to what isn't right - as in this is really not right and needs to be fixed. And I go about trying to change the things that are getting in the way of the painting being emotional and real and raw. I know overworking or over-thinking is not the way to fix it. The way is to be able to distinguish between what is wrong that needs to be fixed, what is off or odd that makes it beautiful and delightful and to relish all that is right about it. Oh yea, just like life. I knew there was a connection.

I sat her above the living room fireplace and went to get the kids. I wasn't really expecting a big deal to be made about the painting but nothing much gets past my kids, especially a topless fish on the mantel. I bring the kids in from down the street and they walk right through the living room into the kitchen without a look. Later, I'm running around getting ready for dinner guest and lighting the candles in the living room. Paul Ray walks in and screams "Hayley, come look what mommy did!" How he was so sure the painting was my work, I don't know. Hayley comes to see what mommy did. And together they sat on the couch looking at the loud, weird, not-quite-right, half-naked mermaid. Quietly. Seemingly fully engaged by the painting. Finally, after a long silence, Hayley says very matter-of-factly, "Mom, I can't stop staring at her." My whole body tingled. "Oh my God" I thought, "My mermaid is mesmerizing! What a gift!"

So there you have it, my Mermaid Miracle. I don't have any illusions that she is great art (okay, so I have a few) but she is my break through. She is a break through in my ability to maneuver and remove my own roadblocks. I listened! I was patient! I was persistent! I painted!