Hope
Hope that what was once part of me could be rekindled, nurtured to grow from a dark place, where once there was light. It was the light of creation, of the imagination, unfettered by the calculus of life and ruled by the expected. Whatever or wherever my mind would roam, my hand would relay to the page, sometimes in wild feathery strokes of uncertainty, and other times in bold clear swoops splayed upon the paper as if they were always intended to lay there.
Somewhere between adolescence and adulthood, I packed this gift away, shoved it under the stairs and forgot about it. Well, not really forgot about it. Sometimes, as if I were walking past a piano once played with passion, and lightly fingering the keys to absorb some joyous memory, I would pull the old sketch pads from the back of the closest and marvel. I had created that once, amazingly so. But, then I would carefully tuck those treasures away, back on the high shelf, out of site. No serious effort was ever made to sit down and play. I was not interested in the work, and be not mistaken, it is that. And it doesn't fit to the music of this current life. Time seems irrelevant to the passion of creativity, it is a tune best played in a timeless place. My usual life is far from timeless and that is a problem.
But now I'm twenty something past twenty and life appears shorter. The predictable path of maturity and obligation seems narrow and dark to me. While I know why I took this path, I wonder why it was described with such vigor and wonder to me. Because it is far from that. More dark then light, more drudgery then joy, a lonely path full of fellow travelers, who stand aside me, but do not speak the truth. If I would dare to speak and suggest, better hint, that this path we all seem to be walking on is not worthy, most look at me blankly as if I suffered from some serious psychosis. Their response would press the lips into a grim line of anyone, except maybe the boldest amongst us. I followed suit, of course. That's what I've done best of late.
Hope, however, was rekindled. Why or how is still a mystery to me, but I stumbled upon this art form called "Mosaic" and I was enthralled. What beauty! What marvelous swirls, and color, anger and boldness! Surely, this is something that even I could do, I thought.
It is for sure an uncommonly odd thing for me to do. I've never pasted stones on wood, never contemplated the importance of spaces between objects, and I've rarely focused on the matter of hue, tone, contrast as much as of late. For my former love was black and white, simple fading and pencil pressure distinguished the figures, but now color matters, not just the lines. Because of my inexperience, I'm forging ahead as a beginner and a loner. A loner by choice, a beginner by necessity.
I've read a few books, completely scanned the internet and saved all the sites in my favorites folder, and I have even identified my favorite mosaicist - Sonia King (
http://www.mosaicworks.com/). She doesn't know it, but I'm a big fan.
So I stoked up the courage, and began. I'll post once in awhile and keep anyone who's interested up to date on my little adventure.
As far as unpacking that box under the stairs. Believe it or not, I have done it and I feel like part of me has been reborn. Perhaps I too, will take the path less traveled. And wouldn't that be a glorious thing.
