Black is not a color. As an artist it’s only a pigment of my imagination. As a person with obvious physical limitations, black signifies darkness which can overwhelm me at any time. By God’s grace, I have brilliant lights of joy, peace and hope within me that can, with all intents and purposes, extinguish it.
My craft of choice was a 1980’s craze called “Papier Tole”. This involved cutting tiny pieces of paper out of identical printed designs and then layering these pieces on top of each other using silicone glue to create a three dimensional effect of the original design.
In 2000, I was going to ambitiously make a picture for my new nephew, but was unable to keep a firm grip on the craft knife because my hand became too weak due to my multiple sclerosis. I was devastated beyond compare and my creativity went into purgatory for 18 years until I settled into a long-term care facility.
I soon discovered that an art class was being offered by recreation therapy, that was once a week, for two hours, had ten residents and an over fraught teacher. This palette of many colors did not mix well and I removed myself from the class, purchased my own painting supplies, researched a sturdier stand for my palate, and invested in a well-made easel to hold my canvases.
I felt giddy at the insurgence of the endless amount of “blank slates” of creative possibilities afforded to me, decades later. With each artistic endeavor, be it through painting, writing or advocating I was able to refresh and clear my mind and focus on the fullness of the experience.
While immersed in such ventures, I would recognize paradoxical emotions of failure to determination and success; constraint and obsession to freedom and abundance. The emotion of the day would be translated through the wooden paintbrush, securely placed between my lips, digested by every stroke, and integrated into my happy medium of acrylic paint.
When I’m painting a new project, I would either sit in the sunroom with the fireplace or outside the front doors of the facility. Strangers take pictures, families and new clients are encouraged, and first responders take the time to reflect.
During one such occasion, the fire alarm went off, fire trucks arrived, and I was so engrossed in my painting I did not smell or watch the drama. When the “false alarm” was extinguished, a firefighter took the time to stop and congratulate me on my demonstration of inspiration.
In the next season, while experimenting with some techniques, I took the leftover paint on my palate and haphazardly painted a dark winter sky, a mauve Christmas tree sitting beside a snow-covered fence, and the Christmas star in the upper right-hand corner. I named the piece “Midnight Clear” and made Christmas cards..this creation is still everyone#s favorite, a decade later.
As a result of my artistic endeavors, I became more well-known in the community and was presented with new opportunities to continue my advocacy with renewed vigor and optimism in the areas of accessible and affordable transportation and housing, among others.
I was commissioned to paint, “Midmorning Train” by a group who wanted to give a thank you gift to the Calgary City Council for approving the Low Income Bus Pass Program. This picture seems to make an emotional impact on people, because it invokes fond memories, past and present, of riding the C-train when they were young or new to Calgary.
Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.
1 Peter 4:10
I can’t paint my pictures in broad strokes due to a kink in my neck but I can keep my head still and concentrate on the smallest of details on a tree; a wheel of an old truck; a rock; or an eye of a wolf.
God never painted our lives in broad strokes, but has focused on the most finite details of our lives.
Even the very hairs of our head are all numbered.
Matthew 10:30
He is constantly arranging these to produce a bigger picture so that we may see His will, plans, and purpose for our lives.
