12 years ago I was about to turn 12. September 11th had happened a few months prior. I was in the 6th grade, started to wear contacts, and was hopelessly battling puberty.
12 years ago I first saw my mother paint.
She was working towards her Masters in Art in Education and her culminating thesis was an art show depicting the wheat and grain heartland in which we lived. She painted four massive paintings following the progress of the maturation of a stalk of wheat. She drew numerous colored pencil drawings of the beautiful grain. She wrote her thesis essay, a paper so long it could have been bound as a book.
In the weeks leading to Christmas, she was painting.
I would spend my day at school, writing stories and thoughts to tell her on scraps of paper I would shove into my pockets. School would end, and my sisters and I would ride the bumpy bus ride home. Once home we would grab a few Oreos, my sisters would head to the TV, and I went to the basement. In the back room, a damp place with molding work desks and cluttered with boxes of taxes from 1993 and dad's old aviation books, my mother had set up her easel. Here she could fling her paintbrush and not worry where drops landed. She could blast music (from Creed and 3 Doors Down, to Trans-Siberian Orchestra and N*Sync Christmas) and be warmed by the diesel furnace that sat about twenty feet away.
I would settle myself on the old green couch, the upholstery a sticky plastic substance (the stickiness most likely developing from years of small children spilling koolaid) and watch my mother paint, while telling her about the contents of the notes buried in my pockets. She would listen, sometimes giving advice, other times sighing in a way that led me to believe I should be joining my sisters in front of the TV.
After the art show my mother's paintings sold, and I have always wondered where they currently hang.
Sometime this past spring, in the throws of a looming depression brought on by the boredom found after college and low income, I wandered into a nearby craft store. Before I knew it, I had drained my meager bank account on a beginners set of acrylic paints, a few small canvases, paint brushes, and a plastic storage container to hold it all.
I hadn't painted since high school, although I had always felt the need to. Setting up in front of reality TV, I got to work, and developed a new coping skill. When I am anxious, restless, and depressed enough to be unable to see bright colors, I sit and paint. When I am bored, when there are no new Dateline episodes online, when I want to give an unique gift, or amp up my online dating profile, I paint.
And recently, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, I have been painting. And of course, listening to Christmas music.
The only Christmas music I listen to is a few select songs from the Love Actually Soundtrack, and all music by Trans-Siberian Orchestra.
Those who know me know I am not a religious person. Going to Catholic Mass for me is more of a family tradition than it is worship. During this Christmas season, as the first away from my family, living in a house sparsely decorated, and in a city that has yet seen snow, the ritual of painting with the background of Trans-Siberian has brought me back to Christmas at the Mills'. With each potted plant draped in lights and bulbs, one (or two) trees decorated to the nines. Garlands and candles on the mantles, and Santa figurines on every surface. Outside there is always a few inches of snow, inside Dad makes a fire, mom works on needlepoint while Dad watches football. We are all covered in blankets with a dog or cat in our laps. There are stuffed moose wearing stocking hats in the bathroom, wreaths in each picture window, and lights edging the brick house. Religion is the tradition of a family.
When I paint, I remember that. And remember the person who makes it all possible, the person who first placed a paint brush in my hand (or a pen for that matter), who takes an entire Saturday to decorate the house, and an entire week to convince her husband its time to put the lights up and get the tree. She cooks the dinner, places the sugar cookie dough in the fridge to cool, and embroiders door hangers for each our bedroom doors.
I recently saw the pictures from Lisa's wedding, where I wore a black dress and my hair pulled up into a tight knot. I was struck at how much I looked like my mother. Today, after breakfast (at noon, obviously, as its a weekend), I threw on jeans, a yellow t-shirt I work out in, and a denim button up. I wrapped my frizzy hair into a bun and stuck a head band on. I glanced at my self in the mirror, and again was struck at how much I looked like my mother.
I got to painting, and within the blues and greens and fumes, I began to have issues. I struggled with getting the strokes and colors just right. I looked away from the canvas and then back, and found the issue. As I tend to work on small canvases, most only 2 inches by 2 inches, I often hold the canvas close to my eyes to get the paint exactly where I want it. And I often have to look away and then back, holding the canvas at an arm's length to see the bigger picture.
And sometimes it takes traveling to a new home on the other side of the world, and tearing up whenever you talk about your mom, to see the bigger picture.
Other than my green eyes from the Mills, I am turning into my mother, and I couldn't have a better Christmas present.
12 years ago I first saw my mother paint.
She was working towards her Masters in Art in Education and her culminating thesis was an art show depicting the wheat and grain heartland in which we lived. She painted four massive paintings following the progress of the maturation of a stalk of wheat. She drew numerous colored pencil drawings of the beautiful grain. She wrote her thesis essay, a paper so long it could have been bound as a book.
In the weeks leading to Christmas, she was painting.
I would spend my day at school, writing stories and thoughts to tell her on scraps of paper I would shove into my pockets. School would end, and my sisters and I would ride the bumpy bus ride home. Once home we would grab a few Oreos, my sisters would head to the TV, and I went to the basement. In the back room, a damp place with molding work desks and cluttered with boxes of taxes from 1993 and dad's old aviation books, my mother had set up her easel. Here she could fling her paintbrush and not worry where drops landed. She could blast music (from Creed and 3 Doors Down, to Trans-Siberian Orchestra and N*Sync Christmas) and be warmed by the diesel furnace that sat about twenty feet away.
I would settle myself on the old green couch, the upholstery a sticky plastic substance (the stickiness most likely developing from years of small children spilling koolaid) and watch my mother paint, while telling her about the contents of the notes buried in my pockets. She would listen, sometimes giving advice, other times sighing in a way that led me to believe I should be joining my sisters in front of the TV.
After the art show my mother's paintings sold, and I have always wondered where they currently hang.
Sometime this past spring, in the throws of a looming depression brought on by the boredom found after college and low income, I wandered into a nearby craft store. Before I knew it, I had drained my meager bank account on a beginners set of acrylic paints, a few small canvases, paint brushes, and a plastic storage container to hold it all.
I hadn't painted since high school, although I had always felt the need to. Setting up in front of reality TV, I got to work, and developed a new coping skill. When I am anxious, restless, and depressed enough to be unable to see bright colors, I sit and paint. When I am bored, when there are no new Dateline episodes online, when I want to give an unique gift, or amp up my online dating profile, I paint.
And recently, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, I have been painting. And of course, listening to Christmas music.
The only Christmas music I listen to is a few select songs from the Love Actually Soundtrack, and all music by Trans-Siberian Orchestra.
Those who know me know I am not a religious person. Going to Catholic Mass for me is more of a family tradition than it is worship. During this Christmas season, as the first away from my family, living in a house sparsely decorated, and in a city that has yet seen snow, the ritual of painting with the background of Trans-Siberian has brought me back to Christmas at the Mills'. With each potted plant draped in lights and bulbs, one (or two) trees decorated to the nines. Garlands and candles on the mantles, and Santa figurines on every surface. Outside there is always a few inches of snow, inside Dad makes a fire, mom works on needlepoint while Dad watches football. We are all covered in blankets with a dog or cat in our laps. There are stuffed moose wearing stocking hats in the bathroom, wreaths in each picture window, and lights edging the brick house. Religion is the tradition of a family.
When I paint, I remember that. And remember the person who makes it all possible, the person who first placed a paint brush in my hand (or a pen for that matter), who takes an entire Saturday to decorate the house, and an entire week to convince her husband its time to put the lights up and get the tree. She cooks the dinner, places the sugar cookie dough in the fridge to cool, and embroiders door hangers for each our bedroom doors.
I recently saw the pictures from Lisa's wedding, where I wore a black dress and my hair pulled up into a tight knot. I was struck at how much I looked like my mother. Today, after breakfast (at noon, obviously, as its a weekend), I threw on jeans, a yellow t-shirt I work out in, and a denim button up. I wrapped my frizzy hair into a bun and stuck a head band on. I glanced at my self in the mirror, and again was struck at how much I looked like my mother.
I got to painting, and within the blues and greens and fumes, I began to have issues. I struggled with getting the strokes and colors just right. I looked away from the canvas and then back, and found the issue. As I tend to work on small canvases, most only 2 inches by 2 inches, I often hold the canvas close to my eyes to get the paint exactly where I want it. And I often have to look away and then back, holding the canvas at an arm's length to see the bigger picture.
And sometimes it takes traveling to a new home on the other side of the world, and tearing up whenever you talk about your mom, to see the bigger picture.
Other than my green eyes from the Mills, I am turning into my mother, and I couldn't have a better Christmas present.
Numinous: adjective, Latin: appealing to the higher emotions or the aesthetic sense.
What a great post. The details from your family Christmases are so sweet. When I'm decorating my home, now I always think of how my parents decorate each Christmas too.
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