New Eyes

When I say I am a painter, it is more of chutzpah than of talent. My very first painting on canvas elicited these comments:

"Mom, they look like objects from outer space."

"What on earth are they, Mom?"

My life has always been intertwined with visual arts. My school, the Art Institute of Chicago, was a huge art complex. With a student ID, I could go to and from school through a spectacular shortcut route—the museum. Then when I took on a job in advertising as a concept writer, I worked closely with artists.

Unfortunately, one can't be a painter through osmosis.

One slow writing day, I left my computer, bought brushes and paint, and unleashed my energy on canvas. What my children see as creatures from twilight zone are actually lilac bougainvillea, lush and fresh, swaying with the nippy wind.

Painting gave me new eyes. It has made me look at a zillion things to which I never paid enough attention before. Now I see patterns, shadows, shapes, rhythm, rhyme, reason. I see love coming from above.

So how come my handiwork doesn't come close?

Well, you can't expect more from hands made for the keyboard rather than the canvas. And this isn't about being a great painter. This is about new eyes seeing more grace than the old pair ever did.

“To you I lift up my eyes, O You who are enthroned in the heavens.” Psalm 123:1

(The above is an excerpt from my defunct e-column, "Gifts of Grace: the Column," which I suddenly remembered while window shopping for acrylic paints.)